March 14, 2042
Eagle Federation

They said war can change a man's life. That’s not something they tell you in the recruitment office.

They show you the posters—the glory, the honor, the brotherhood. They tell you about serving your country, about being part of something greater than yourself. But they don’t tell you about the weight you carry when the dust settles. The faces that stay with you. The silence after the last shot is fired.

How did I get here? How did I survive this damn war? All the men I killed, all the things I’ve done that I’m not proud of. Why me?

The pen feels heavy in my hand. I stare down at the blank page, the ink smudging slightly where my fingers press too hard. This isn’t for history books. It’s not for medals or recognition. I’m writing this for myself—trying to make sense of the past, of the ghosts that refuse to leave me.

Somewhere downstairs, I hear the faint murmur of voices, the clatter of plates. My family. My daughter. They’re waiting for me.

"Dad?" Julia’s voice calls from below. "Dad, you up there? Are you alright? We’re ready for you to cut the cake."

Cake. A simple thing, yet it feels distant, almost surreal. How many birthdays did I miss? How many times did my daughter sit at a table, waiting for a father who was thousands of miles away in some godforsaken warzone?

I run a hand over my knee, feeling the familiar ache—an old injury from the war that never fully healed. It acts as a reminder, a tether to a past that won’t let go. The cold air seeps into my bones, making it stiff, but I don’t move yet. My gaze lingers on the photo album sitting open on my desk, the edges of the pages worn from years of handling.

A photograph stares back at me—two young men in uniform, arms around each other, grinning like idiots. My younger self. And beside me… him.

Julia steps into the room, her presence gentle. She picks up the album, running her fingers over the old pictures. Her voice is soft, almost in awe.

"Wow… these are incredible."

I exhale slowly. My voice feels distant, like I’m speaking through layers of time.

"Yes. It was… an incredible time."

She smiles, then pauses, tilting her head as she looks at the picture more closely.

"You looked very handsome in that uniform."

A sharp pain cuts through my chest, but I force a smile. My fingers graze the edge of the photograph.

"That’s not me," I murmur. "That’s your uncle. Tiberius. My little brother."

Her eyes widen slightly. "Oh… of course. I’m sorry, Dad. Take as long as you need."

"No, no… it’s okay, Julia."

She gives me a small, understanding nod before slipping back out, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

The room falls silent again, but my mind is anything but. The ghosts are stirring. The past threatens to drag me under.

I close my eyes, and for a moment, I’m not in this quiet house. I’m back there, in the dirt, in the cold, the scent of gunpowder and sweat thick in the air.

I see my brother’s face. Hear his laughter. Feel the weight of the last words we ever spoke to each other.

I rub my temple, forcing myself to focus. I open the drawer of my desk and pull out something else—not a journal, just a folded letter. A copy of what I had sent all those years ago.

The journal of an Eagle Federation pilot. A man I barely knew, yet one whose final words I carried across a war-torn landscape to deliver to his family.

That was… what? Fifteen years ago now?

Back then, I didn’t know much English. I couldn’t even speak it. So I asked my wife to help me write it for them.

My husband found this in Turin. It belonged to him. You know what to do.

I never expected to get a reply.

But I did.

A few weeks after I sent the journal to his family, I got a letter. Not just from them—but from his teammates, his family, and his girlfriend… or maybe his wife. I don’t remember.

But I remember the words.

They thanked me.

They had been worried sick after hearing he was MIA. For so long, they had no idea what happened to him. No closure. No final words. And then, suddenly, they had a piece of him again.

I read that letter over and over. I tried to find comfort in it. I tried to believe that I had done something good.

But war doesn’t let you walk away clean.

For every one I saved, there were others I couldn’t. Names I still remember. Faces I still see in my dreams. My brother among them.

I run my hand over my knee, feeling the dull ache of an old wound. It’s always worse in the cold, always stiff in the morning. A small price to pay for making it out. Some didn’t even get that.

I lean back in my chair, closing my eyes for a moment.

The past has a way of creeping back when you least expect it. A photograph, a familiar song, the scent of rain on concrete—it doesn’t take much. Some ghosts fade, but others… others stay with you.

I rub my temple, letting out a slow breath. I don’t even know why I started writing this. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s regret. Maybe I just need to put it somewhere, outside my head, so I don’t carry it alone anymore.

Downstairs, I hear Julia laughing, the sound light and full of life. For a moment, I just sit there, listening.

She’s waiting for me. They all are.

I take another look at the photo album. My younger self. My brother. The dreams we had, the promises we made.

I reach for the journal again, running my fingers over the worn cover. Maybe one day, Julia will read it. Maybe she’ll understand. Maybe she won’t.

I exhale, gripping my pen, and finally press it to the page.

If I don’t write this now, I never will.

This is my story. Not the official version, not the one in history books. The truth.

Because the war didn’t end when the last bullet was fired.

For some of us, it never really ended at all.

I grip the pen tighter, staring at the words I’ve just written. The truth. The weight of it lingers in the air. But as I close the journal, a question gnaws at me, the same one I’ve asked myself every night since the war ended.

"Was it worth it?"

I don’t know the answer. Maybe I never will.

I exhale, setting the pen down. The ink is still fresh, smudged where my grip was too tight. The words stare back at me, raw and unpolished. But they’re mine.

My gaze drifts to the old journal beside me—the Eagle pilot’s. I kept my promise. His family got his words, his last thoughts. I did right by him. But after all these years, I still wonder if it was enough.

I stand, my knee protesting as I do. I’m not as quick as I used to be. Not as strong. But I’m here. And that has to mean something.

I flip the desk lamp off. The room falls into darkness.

And I head downstairs, toward the voices of the living.

My name is Captain (Capt.) Lucanus Marius Quintus, an operator of the Raven Special Forces’ elite RAZOR unit, and this is my story.

I was born in 1990, in Torre del Greco, a coastal town in the Raven Union. A place where the sea ruled everything—where the scent of saltwater clung to your clothes, and the sound of waves against the harbor walls was as constant as the wind. The kind of town where fishermen drank their morning coffee with hands still raw from hauling in the day’s catch, and where the old men sat outside the cafés, smoking and arguing over the same things they had fifty years ago.

We weren’t wealthy. We weren’t poor, either. We had enough. My father worked on boats—sometimes fishing, sometimes moving cargo—whatever paid. My mother ran the household, raising me and my younger brother, Tiberius, with the kind of quiet discipline that never needed to be spoken out loud. She wasn’t one for sentiment, but she was always there—making sure we ate, making sure we studied, making sure we didn’t get ourselves killed doing something stupid.

But my father... he was different.

A House on the Edge of a Bomb
I never knew what kind of man would walk through the door at night. Sometimes, he’d be exhausted, barely saying a word before collapsing into his chair, nursing a beer in silence. Other times, he’d come home with something gnawing at him—something deep, angry, and ugly. Those nights, the air in the house felt like a wire stretched too tight, ready to snap. The floorboards creaked under his unsteady steps, his voice slurred with drink, and his temper burned hot.

A house should feel like a refuge, a place where you could breathe easy. But ours felt like a room filling with gas, just waiting for a spark.

I learned early how to disappear—to stay quiet, to move without making a sound. Tiberius did too, but he was younger. He didn’t always know when to run, when to keep his head down. One night, I heard the sound before I saw it—flesh meeting flesh, a sharp crack splitting the air. I turned the corner and saw our father standing over him, belt in hand, Tiberius curled on the floor.

Something inside me snapped.

I don’t remember thinking, don’t remember hesitating. I just threw myself at him, fists swinging. I might as well have been punching stone. He caught me, threw me to the ground, and the next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital bed, my ribs aching with every breath.

The worst part? I wasn’t even angry at him. I was angry at myself. For being too weak. For not stopping it.

And our mother?

I barely remember her face. Just flashes—her hands brushing my hair back when I was little, the sound of her voice humming while she cooked. But I do remember the night she left. The way she stood at the door, her bags packed, looking at us like she wanted to say something but couldn’t. And then she was gone.

She never came back.

Maybe she was running from him. Maybe she was running from us.

Did it matter?

She left.

And we learned that in this world, the only people we could rely on were each other.

Orphans in the System
We survived the way we could. Stole food when we had to. Slept wherever was safest. Hid out in places no one would look—empty buildings, alleyways, the back of an old truck someone left abandoned near the docks. Anything to avoid going back to that house.

When the authorities finally took us in, it wasn’t a rescue. It was just another kind of survival. The system chewed us up and spat us out into homes that were just as bad, if not worse.

The first one? Junkies. People who only took in kids for the government checks, barely even pretended to care. The next? Stricter than a military barracks—one wrong move, one step out of line, and you were getting the belt. Others were just indifferent. We were bodies in a house, nothing more.

One home had a son—spoiled, mean, the kind of kid who thought he was untouchable. He made the mistake of mocking us for not having parents.

I broke his nose.

They kicked us out the next day.

And by then, I had stopped believing we’d ever have a real family.

The Quintus Household
The night we arrived at the Quintus household, I expected more of the same. The house was nice—not too big, not too small. The kind of place that looked lived in, warm in a way I didn’t trust. The couple who took us in, they were older, couldn’t have kids of their own.

People like that usually wanted to “fix” us. To turn us into grateful little orphans who called them Mom and Dad like something out of a fairytale.

I decided early I wasn’t playing along.

I tested them. Broke things. Called them every name I could think of. Berated them. Dared them to throw us out.

They didn’t.

No matter what I did, they stayed. Forgave.

And I hated it.

Because it meant I couldn’t push them away.

My twelfth birthday came around, and they had a cake. A real cake, with candles and my name written on it. I didn’t know what to do.

The only birthdays I’d known were ones I spent forgetting what day it was.

I didn’t believe it. Couldn’t.

Then I looked at Tiberius, at the way he was smiling, actually happy for the first time in years.

And that was the moment I realized they weren’t going to give up on us.

I didn’t say thank you. Not that night. But I stopped fighting them.

Fists Like a Weapon
Some fights, you don’t get a choice in.

It happened after school, near the bus stop, where the teachers couldn’t see. The kid was bigger than Tiberius, fat and smug, the kind of bastard who got a kick out of kicking people who were already down. He called us strays. Said we weren’t real people because we didn’t have real parents.

Tiberius told me to let it go.

I didn’t.

The first punch landed hard. I heard his teeth click together, saw the shock in his eyes before rage took over. He swung back, but I was faster. A second punch. A third. His nose cracked, blood spraying across his shirt. I didn’t stop, not until hands were yanking me back, teachers shouting, the world spinning in a blur of fists and curses.

Tiberius wasn’t happy.

That night, he cornered me in our room, his face tight with frustration.

"What the hell was that, Luc?"

"He had it coming."

"And what? You gonna fight everyone who says something you don’t like?"

"If I have to."

He shook his head, disappointed in a way that cut deeper than any punishment the school could give me.

"You can’t keep doing this. One day, you’re not gonna walk away from it."

I didn’t have an answer for him.

Because deep down, I knew he was right.

A Different Kind of Fight
I didn’t have many people on my side at school. But there was one.

My art teacher.

She was the first person outside of my brother who saw something in me that wasn’t just fists and anger. I don’t know what made her notice, but one day, after yet another fight, she called me into the art room instead of sending me straight to detention.

She handed me a sketchbook.

"You’re good at this," she said.

I scoffed. "I just scribble."

"No. You see things. That’s different."

I didn’t know how to respond to that. No one had ever looked at me like I was worth something outside of the trouble I caused.

I never became the perfect student. Never stopped getting into fights. But I started spending more time in that art room. Started drawing more. Started realizing that maybe there was more to me than just my temper.

I just wasn’t sure what yet.

The Routine of It All
High school wasn’t difficult in the way people usually meant. The work wasn’t impossible. The teachers weren’t monsters. The other students weren’t much different from the ones I’d been around before—some loud, some quiet, most just trying to get through the day. But for me, it felt like another thing I was being forced into, another system I had to navigate without ever feeling like I belonged.

I moved through it on autopilot. Wake up, get dressed, go to school, sit through classes. Most of it blurred together. Math problems I didn’t care about. Essays I wrote without thinking. Teachers droning on while I stared at the clock, counting down the minutes until I could leave.

I wasn’t a bad student, but I wasn’t a good one either. I did enough to pass, never enough to stand out. The less attention I got, the easier things were. If I finished my work early, I’d sketch in the margins of my notebook, rough lines turning into faces, shapes, things that made more sense to me than whatever was on the whiteboard.

Lunch was always the same, too. Tiberius and I sat together, not because we had to, but because it was easier than trying to figure out who else to sit with. He made friends more easily than I did. People liked him. He could talk to just about anyone and make it feel natural. I watched from the sidelines, answering when I needed to, but never offering more than that.

Some people tried to get close. They’d joke around with me in class, ask if I wanted to hang out after school. I’d always find a way out of it. I didn’t see the point. I’d been through this before—new school, new faces, people who acted like they wanted to be your friend until they realized you weren’t the person they thought you were.

So I kept my distance.

Except for her.

But that was something else entirely.

Foster Parents and the Distance Between Us
My foster parents weren’t bad people. They tried, in their own way. They never raised their voices at me, never laid a hand on me, never made me feel unwelcome. But there was a wall between us, one we never figured out how to break.

They asked me about school. I gave short answers. They asked if I needed anything. I told them no. They told me they were proud when I brought home passing grades. I nodded, unsure of what to do with that.

I think they wanted me to open up. To trust them. But I didn’t know how.

They never pushed, never forced it. Maybe they knew that would only make me shut down more.

Instead, my foster father would try in his own way. He’d ask if I wanted to help him in the garage, passing him tools while he worked on the car. He’d tell me stories about when he was younger, about the mistakes he made.

“There’s a kind of anger that eats you alive if you let it,” he said once, tightening a bolt. “It makes you feel like you’re in control, but really, it’s the one controlling you.”

I didn’t say anything.

He glanced at me, then back at the car. “You don’t have to figure everything out right now,” he said. “But don’t let it swallow you.”

I wanted to ask him how he knew. How he could see it so clearly. But I already knew the answer.

His old uniform hung in the back of the closet, the medals tucked away in a box. He’d fought his own battles long before I came into the picture.

And he was still fighting them.

Nights He Couldn’t Sleep
Some nights, I couldn’t sleep no matter how hard I tried.

I’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle around me. Every creak, every distant sound outside—it all felt too familiar. Like I was back in the old house, waiting for something bad to happen.

Tiberius slept soundly across the hall. I envied that.

On the worst nights, I’d get up. I’d walk through the house, checking the locks, making sure everything was as it should be. I’d look in on Tiberius, just to reassure myself he was still there. Still safe.

And when that wasn’t enough, I’d leave.

The streets were empty, silent except for the occasional car passing by. I’d walk without a destination, hands in my pockets, my breath visible in the cold night air. I told myself I wasn’t running away. That I wasn’t looking for anything.

But some part of me was.

I’d pass by late-night diners, gas stations, convenience stores with flickering neon lights. There were always people out at this hour—drunks, loners, men smoking in parked cars with dead eyes.

We never spoke.

But I think some of them recognized what I was doing.

Some nights, I wandered into places I shouldn’t have. Dark alleyways. Streets where people stood in small groups, whispering in low voices. They’d glance at me, measuring me up, then look away. Maybe they saw the way I carried myself. Maybe they saw something familiar.

I never stayed long.

I wasn’t looking for trouble. Not really.

I just needed to be anywhere but home.

By the time I made it back, my legs would be aching, exhaustion finally catching up to me. I’d slip back inside, careful not to make a sound. I’d lie back down, staring at the ceiling again, waiting for sleep that never came.

I never told anyone.

Tiberius never asked why I looked so tired in the mornings. My foster parents never questioned it. Maybe they thought I was staying up late playing games or watching TV. Maybe they knew the truth and just didn’t know how to bring it up.

Either way, nothing changed.

The nights stayed long.

The silence stayed heavy.

And I kept walking.

There’s a moment after a fight where everything slows down. The ringing in your ears fades, your breathing evens out, and for just a few seconds, you feel like everything in the world has settled into place. It’s like all the chaos inside you—the anger, the frustration, the things you don’t have words for—gets forced onto someone else. And in that moment, you’re in control. That’s what I felt after I nearly beat a kid half to death.

It happened after school, near the back of the gym. I hadn’t gone looking for a fight, but trouble has a way of finding me. This kid—big, mean, the kind that always had a group around him, laughing at whatever cruelty came out of his mouth—was shoving some freshman against the lockers, knocking books out of his hands. I should’ve walked away. Should’ve ignored it. But then I heard what he was saying. Something about dads. About how the freshman didn’t have one. About how maybe his parents just didn’t want him.

And suddenly, I wasn’t looking at that kid anymore. I was looking at myself.

I don’t even remember moving, just the feeling of my fist connecting with his gut. He doubled over, coughing, looking at me like he couldn’t believe what just happened. I didn’t give him time to recover. The second punch caught him in the jaw. The third sent him against the lockers. I don’t know how many times I hit him. I just remember the blood. The way his nose bent at the wrong angle. The sound of bone against metal. And the feeling—the adrenaline rushing through me, telling me this was right. That this was the way to make things fair.

By the time they pulled me off him, he wasn’t moving much. His face was swollen, his hands weakly trying to push himself up. I stood over him, chest heaving, fists stinging, and for a second, I thought, He won’t say that again.

For the first time in a long time, I felt like I’d done something that made sense.

That feeling didn’t last.

The Parent-Principal Meeting
I knew what was coming before I even stepped into the office. The principal sat behind his desk, fingers laced together, a deep frown cutting across his face. My foster parents were already there, looking more tired than angry. The school counselor sat off to the side, pretending to take notes but mostly just watching me.

They all had something to say. Words like violent outburst, serious consequences, what if he had died? I wasn’t listening. I just stared at the desk, arms crossed, waiting for them to decide what they were going to do with me. Another suspension? Expulsion? It didn’t matter.

Then my foster father spoke.

“What if he got the chance to fix this?” His voice was calm, steady. He wasn’t making excuses for me. He wasn’t trying to downplay what I did. He just looked at the principal like he already had an answer. “He doesn’t need another suspension,” he said. “He needs discipline. Structure.”

I frowned, glancing up at him. I didn’t know what he meant. But I was about to find out.

The Lecture
The drive home was quiet. Tiberius sat in the backseat, arms crossed, not looking at me. My foster mother gripped the wheel so tightly her knuckles were white. My foster father didn’t say anything for a long time, just staring out the window.

When we finally pulled into the driveway and stepped inside, they didn’t start yelling. They didn’t have to.

“We gave you a lot of chances,” he finally said. “We tried to help you in every way we could, but you just threw it away like it was nothing.”

I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him that the kid deserved it, that some people needed to be put in their place. But he wasn’t finished.

“I can only imagine the pain you’re feeling,” he said. “I get it. I was like you—angry at the world, looking for fights, taking it out on everyone I could.” He shook his head. “You think this road leads somewhere? I’ll tell you where it leads, Lucanus. It leads to nothing. It eats you alive.”

I stared at the floor, jaw clenched.

“For my parents’ sake, I tried therapy,” he continued. His voice was quiet now, almost tired. “And it worked. It didn’t happen overnight, but I stopped waking up looking for something to hit. I stopped being this.” He exhaled, rubbing his face. “If you gave it a real chance… me and your mother would appreciate it.”

There was no anger in his voice. No threat. Just a simple statement. And for the first time, I didn’t have an answer.

The Confrontation
Tiberius waited until we were alone before he spoke.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” His voice was sharp, almost shaking.

I frowned, turning to him. “You sound just like him.”

That stopped me.

I knew exactly who he meant.

“You’re throwing everything away,” he said. “Just like he did.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “I’m not gonna watch you turn into him.”

He turned and walked away.

I didn’t stop him.

But I should have.

The Past Repeats
That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about our old man. The stink of alcohol. The sound of the buckle sliding free. The way he’d take his time, dragging it out. The bruises. The way I had tried, over and over, to stop him.

I hated him.

But I was starting to wonder if I was any different.

I was throwing punches because it felt good. Because I could. Because it was easier than dealing with everything else.

And if I didn’t stop, where would it end?

The Discovery
A few nights later, I was looking for something in the hallway closet when I found it. A storage box, tucked away under some old coats. Curious, I pulled it out, brushing the dust off the lid. Inside were old military service records. Medals. Photos of a younger man in uniform—my foster father, sharp-eyed and serious, standing beside other soldiers. Raven Army, 1st Regiment "Granatieri di Sardegna". The Civil War.

I frowned. I knew he had served. But I didn’t know it was like this.

The door creaked open behind me.

“You never told me you were Military,” I said without turning.

He stepped into the room, arms crossed. “Not something I like talking about.”

I held up one of the photos. “Why?”

He sighed, stepping forward, kneeling beside me. He picked up one of the medals, running his fingers over it. “You ever kill a man, son?”

I swallowed. “No.”

“Hope you never have to.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

After a long moment, he tapped the edge of the box. “You think you’re the first kid who thought fighting was the answer?” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I see you struggling, Lucanus. I know that anger. And I know where it leads.”

He placed a firm hand on my shoulder. “You need purpose, son. Not just fights.”

I looked at the old photos again. The rows of soldiers, standing with that same hardened look in their eyes. The uniform. The medals.

For the first time, I saw something more than just a way to survive.

Maybe I needed something more.

Maybe I needed discipline.

I don’t believe in fate. Never have. But if I did, I’d say it started that afternoon in art class, when a girl I didn’t know sat next to me like she’d been doing it for years.

I was—I don’t know, maybe fifteen or something. Just another kid stuck in a classroom, killing time. Art wasn’t my passion or anything. It was just a class, better than math, quieter than history. A place where I could sit in the back, zone out, and let my pencil move.

That day, I was sketching a mountain countryside. No reference, just whatever came to mind. A river cutting through a valley, peaks stretching off into the distance. I wasn’t even thinking about it, just filling the page. A distraction. The pencil moved almost on its own, tracing slopes and ridges, shading where it felt right. The art room smelled like paint, that faint chemical bite hanging in the air, mixing with the scent of paper, eraser dust, and whatever cheap soap the janitors used on the floors.

It was quiet, mostly. Just the scratch of pencils, the occasional low murmur of conversation. The sun streamed in through the windows, slanting across the desks, catching flecks of dust in the air. Some kids whispered at the front, half paying attention to their sketches, half waiting for the bell.

I wasn’t paying much attention to any of it. Until she sat down.

No hesitation. No asking if the seat was taken. Just dropped into the chair next to me, flipping open her sketchbook like this was her usual spot.

I figured she’d move. Most people did.

She didn’t.

I didn’t look up right away, but I could hear her flipping through her pages. Quick, purposeful. Not like someone absentmindedly doodling—like she was looking for something, maybe checking her own work. Then the sound stopped. A pencil touched paper. Fast, confident strokes.

I glanced over.

She had brown hair, freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks, and this sharp, striking kind of look—like someone out of a painting. She dressed like everyone else, just another uniform in the crowd, but something about her stood out. Maybe it was the way the light hit her hair, or maybe it was something else, something harder to pin down.

She worked fast. No hesitation, no second-guessing. She knew exactly where she was going with each line. No pausing to erase, no tilting her head to second-guess a shape. I caught myself staring, watching the way her fingers barely twitched as she sketched.

"What?"

Her voice snapped me out of it.

I looked away too fast. "Nothing."

She adjusted her glasses—a quick, nervous habit. Left-handed. Not that it mattered, but I noticed.

I should’ve gone back to my own drawing. Finished shading in the cliffs, maybe added some trees. But something about the way she worked kept pulling my attention.

I wasn’t the only one watching. A couple of kids near the front of the room glanced back, whispering. She was new. That much was obvious.

She didn’t seem to care.

I caught myself looking again, and this time, she smirked.

"You always zone out like that?"

"Only when people sit in my space uninvited."

She laughed, and it caught me off guard. It wasn’t a polite, fake laugh. It was real. Light. The kind that made me feel like she had already figured me out, like she knew exactly what she was doing.

"Good thing I’m not asking permission, then."

I shook my head, trying not to grin. Went back to my sketch.

But then she leaned over, her elbow nearly brushing mine, and tapped her pencil against my paper.

"Your mountains are wrong."

I frowned. "What?"

"Too even," she said. "Real mountains aren’t perfect. They’re jagged. Messy. You made them look fake."

I looked down at my sketch, then at hers.

She wasn’t wrong.

Her lines were rougher, looser, but they had weight. Depth. Even in quick, unfinished strokes, they looked more real than mine.

"Not everything has to be perfect," I muttered.

"It’s not about perfection," she said, still sketching. "It’s about making it real."

I didn’t have a response to that. I just sat there, staring at my mountains, hearing the soft scratch of her pencil moving across the page.

For the first time in a long time, I wanted to fix something.

Not because I cared about the drawing.

Because I wanted to prove her wrong.

The bell rang before I could try.

She snapped her sketchbook shut, tucked her pencil behind her ear, and stood. She was already halfway to the door when she glanced back.

"See you around, mystery artist."

And then she was gone.

I didn’t ask her name. Didn’t think to.

At the time, it felt like nothing. Just another class, another passing conversation.

But looking back, I think that was the moment everything started.

"Looking Back"
At the time, it didn’t feel like anything special. Just another class, another face in the crowd, another pointless conversation.

But now? Now I know better.

That was the moment everything started—before I even knew her name, before I understood what any of it meant. Just a girl correcting my mountains, a smirk, a tease, a lingering glance before she walked away.

Funny how things work. You never realize when a moment is going to matter. Not until it’s too late to go back.

Seeing Her Everywhere
At first, I thought it was nothing.

People exist in the same spaces all the time. You pass them in the hall, see them across a room, share a sidewalk without thinking about it. It’s normal. Just life.

That’s what I told myself the first time I saw her outside of art class.

Then it kept happening.

Hallway between classes. She was there, walking with her sketchbook hugged to her chest, adjusting her glasses as she listened to a friend talk. Cafeteria. I caught sight of her through the crowd, leaning forward over her lunch tray, lost in conversation. Outside school. Sitting on the stone steps, sketching something in her book, legs crossed, completely absorbed.

Then the places that weren’t school.

The park—wind catching her hair as she sat under a tree, pencil gliding across the page. The local shops—half-hidden behind a bookstore window, flipping through a novel. The mall—standing at the counter of some art supply store, testing pens on the sample paper.

And then the movie theater.

That one nearly killed me.

I was standing in line for tickets, hands stuffed in my pockets, when I felt her before I saw her. Some strange awareness in the back of my mind, like something was shifting around me.

I turned my head.

There she was.

A few lines over, standing with some friends, laughing at something one of them said. That laugh—I knew it now. I’d heard it before, but this time it cut through everything else.

Then, as if she could sense me, she looked up.

And she caught me. Again.

For a split second, she just held my gaze. Then that smirk—the same one from the art room. Slow, teasing, like she knew exactly what she was doing.

And ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥, my face went red.

I turned back to the ticket booth, forcing myself to focus, to act normal. But the damage was done.

It wasn’t just coincidence anymore.

The universe was messing with me.

Caught Staring (Again)
I told myself it wouldn’t happen again. That I’d be more careful, more subtle.

That lasted about two days.

We were in the art room. I wasn’t thinking about her—at least, I wasn’t trying to. I was just sketching, lost in the motion of my pencil against the paper. Lines turning into shapes. Shadows taking form.

Then, for whatever reason, I looked up.

And there she was.

Same seat, across the room. Elbow propped on the table, chin resting on her palm, listening to the teacher go on about something. She wasn’t even looking at me.

But then she did.

I froze.

Too late to look away, too obvious if I did.

She smirked.

Then—to make it worse—she mouthed something at me.

What?

Like I was the weird one. Like I was the one who kept showing up everywhere she went.

I shook my head, forcing my eyes back down to my sketchbook. Tried to focus, to ignore the warmth creeping up my neck.

But that look. That damn smirk. It stayed with me.

And maybe—just maybe—I caught myself looking for her after that.

The Adoption News
Dinner was normal. Same table, same routine.

My brother and I sat across from each other, half-listening to the hum of conversation, the clinking of silverware. It was one of those nights where everything just felt comfortable.

Then they said it.

“We want to adopt you both.”

Just like that. No big speech, no long-winded explanation. Just… said. Simple.

My brother reacted first. “Wait, really?” His eyes lit up, a grin breaking across his face. He looked between them, between me, like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

I just sat there.

It wasn’t shock, not really. Maybe I’d always known, deep down, that this was coming. They’d never treated us like we were temporary. Never made us feel like we were just guests passing through.

I smirked a little, shaking my head.

And of course, my brother saw it.

“Oh my God.” He pointed at me, eyes wide. “He smiled. For the first time in history. Hold on, I need to take a picture.”

He made a show of fumbling for his nonexistent camera, pretending to snap photos.

I rolled my eyes. “Shut up.”

But the truth was—it was real.

For the first time, it felt like we weren’t just staying here. We belonged.

Reflection
This should be the moment my life changed.

It should’ve been the thing I couldn’t stop thinking about.

So why was my mind somewhere else?

Why was I thinking about her?

I didn’t even know why. But I was.

The way she adjusted her glasses, like she didn’t even realize she was doing it. The way she always seemed so sure of herself, like she belonged anywhere she was. The way she looked at me, like she knew I’d be looking back.

It wasn’t just coincidence anymore.

I wasn’t just noticing her.

I was watching.

And maybe—just maybe—she was watching me too.

“This should be the moment my life changes. So why do I feel like it already did?”

Brother’s Teasing
Later that night, my brother wouldn’t let it go.

We were back in our room, him sprawled across his bed, still grinning like an idiot.

“Sooo…” he dragged out the word, staring at me. “Who’s the girl?”

I didn’t look up. “What girl?”

“Oh, please.” He rolled onto his side, propping his head up. “The one you were sitting with in art class. The one you keep staring at. The one you’re definitely thinking about right now.”

I sighed. “Don’t start.”

“Do you like her?”

I shot him a look.

His grin widened. “Ohhh, defensive.” He nodded sagely. “That means yes.”

“It means shut up.”

“Uh-huh.” He leaned back, hands behind his head, smirking. “If you ever wanna talk about your feelings—”

I grabbed my pillow and launched it at his face.

He dodged, laughing.

At least, for now, he let it go.

But he knew.

I never went to the library much.
Sometimes, I went there just to sleep.

It was quiet, warm, and tucked away from everything else—a place where no one really paid attention to you. The sound of pages turning, the soft hum of the air conditioning, the faint scent of old books and printer ink—it all blended into a kind of background noise that made it easy to disappear.

That was the plan, at least.

Until today.

A loud thud rattled the table, jerking me out of my half-conscious state like a gunshot in a dream.

I blinked, my vision still unfocused, my mind sluggish as it caught up. I hadn’t meant to actually fall asleep, just rest my eyes for a bit. But judging by the way my body still felt heavy, I must’ve been out longer than I thought.

Then I saw her.

The art girl.

She stood across from me, arms crossed, head slightly tilted, watching me like I was some kind of experiment she was running.

For a second, I just stared. My brain still hadn’t caught up.

Then I exhaled, rubbing a hand over my face. “Was that necessary?”

She raised an eyebrow, completely unbothered. “You were out cold.”

“I was resting.”

“You were snoring.”

I frowned. “I don’t snore.”

She didn’t argue. Just gave a slight, unimpressed shrug and pulled out the chair across from me, dropping into it like she’d already decided this was her seat now. Without another word, she flipped open her sketchbook, her pencil already moving, as if I wasn’t even there.

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to process what was happening. She hadn’t asked if she could sit down. Hadn’t hesitated. Just sat, like this was her usual spot, like she belonged here.

Then I saw the book she’d slammed onto the table.

The Art of War.

I scoffed under my breath. “Trying to send a message?”

She didn’t look up. “Thought you could use some strategy advice.”

I huffed a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “You always wake people up like this?”

“Only the ones who look pathetic while sleeping.”

My mouth twitched, almost a grin, but I bit it back. Instead, I leaned back in my chair, watching the way her pencil moved across the page. Quick, sharp strokes, completely confident. No hesitation, no second-guessing. She wasn’t just doodling—she was building something, forming structure, depth, shape.

She was left-handed. I’d noticed that before, but now I saw how fluid her movements were, how natural. It wasn’t careful. It was instinct.

I didn’t even realize I was staring until she flicked her gaze up at me, just for a second.

“What?”

I looked away too fast. “Nothing.”

She smirked.

A few more seconds passed in silence before she spun her sketchbook toward me.

“Better than your mountains?”

I looked down at the page.

It was a sketch of me.

Unflattering. Slumped over, mouth slightly open, eyes half-lidded like I’d just been knocked unconscious.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

She grinned, flicking the page back around. “Gotta keep you humble.”

I let out a slow breath, shaking my head. “Unbelievable.”

She reached for her book and stood, tucking her sketchbook under her arm, already turning away like this was just another routine interaction, like she did this kind of thing all the time.

Then, just before she walked off, she glanced back at me.

“See you around, Lucanus.”

I froze.

I hadn’t told her my name.

She must’ve seen the look on my face, because that smirk deepened.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she said. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

She took a few steps, then paused at the end of the table.

“Oh—Valeria.” She tapped her sketchbook. “In case you were wondering.”

Then, just like that, she was gone.

I sat there for a moment, staring at The Art of War, my fingers tapping idly against the cover, my mind replaying the past few minutes.

The book hitting the table.
The way she looked at me, like she already knew how I’d react.
That smirk—calculated, teasing, like she was daring me to say something else.

Damn it.

I was already looking forward to the next round.

A Conversation That Lasts Longer Than It Should
I told myself I wasn’t thinking about her.

That was a lie.

It wasn’t on purpose. She just had this way of getting stuck in my head—like a song you hear once but can’t stop humming. The kind that sneaks up on you in quiet moments, filling the silence before you even realize it’s there.

So when I saw her again—this time outside, leaning against the wall near the school parking lot, flipping through her sketchbook—I don’t know why I walked over.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was something else.

Either way, she didn’t look surprised when I stopped next to her.

“Do I owe you rent now?” I asked. “Since you keep showing up wherever I am.”

She didn’t even glance up. “Funny. I was just about to say the same thing.”

I huffed a quiet laugh, shifting my weight. “What’re you working on?”

That got her attention. She looked up, adjusting her glasses like she needed a moment to decide whether or not I was serious. Then, without a word, she tilted her sketchbook toward me.

It was a cityscape. Loose lines, but full of movement. Not stiff, not perfect—just real. I could almost hear the street noise, feel the weight of the buildings pressing in.

I nodded, actually impressed. “Looks good.”

“Obviously.”

I snorted. “You ever just say thank you?”

She smirked. “Not if I can help it.”

A beat of silence stretched between us.

It wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it was the opposite. Easy. Like we’d already done this a hundred times before.

Her eyes flicked to my hands. “No sketchbook?”

I shrugged. “Didn’t bring one.”

“Shame. You could’ve practiced your very realistic mountains.”

I shook my head, biting back a grin. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

“Nope.”

I leaned back against the wall beside her, tilting my head toward the sky. The air smelled like warm pavement and fading sunlight, the kind of late-afternoon stillness that made everything feel a little too big and a little too small at the same time.

After a moment, I glanced at her.

We made eye contact—her brown eyes catching the light, bright like stars. Something about it made my chest tighten, like for a second, I forgot how to breathe.

I swallowed. Looked away too fast.

She didn’t say anything about it, but I felt her watching me, like she had already figured me out.

After a moment, I cleared my throat. “You always draw alone?”

She paused mid-stroke, tapping her pencil lightly against the page.

“Not always,” she said. “But I don’t let just anyone see my work.”

That threw me for a second. Because she had shown me.

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded.

Another quiet moment. The kind that should’ve felt awkward but didn’t.

Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I said, “Do you want to go out sometime?”

I heard her pencil stop.

Slowly, she turned her head toward me, studying me like I was some kind of puzzle.

I kept my expression even. Casual. Like her answer didn’t matter either way.

For a second, she didn’t say anything at all.

Then, finally—

“Depends.”

I raised an eyebrow. “On what?”

Her smirk returned, sharp and knowing.

“Are we gonna sit in silence the whole time?”

I exhaled a laugh, shaking my head. “No promises.”

She tapped her pencil against the sketchbook once more. Then, without looking up—

“Alright, mystery artist. You’ve got my attention.”

“Alright, mystery artist. You’ve got my attention.”

She said it so casually, like it was a challenge, like I was already playing a game I hadn’t realized I signed up for.

I expected her to follow it up with something else—maybe a yes, maybe a no, maybe some teasing remark that left me in limbo. But instead, she just tilted her head slightly, studying me, then said—

“Walk me home.”

Not a date. Not a rejection. Just an open-ended offer.

For half a second, I hesitated, trying to figure out if there was some kind of catch. But she was already turning, already expecting me to follow.

So I did.

The school parking lot faded behind us as we stepped onto the main street. It was the kind of quiet that only existed at this time of day—past the afternoon rush, but not quite late enough for the nightlife to wake up. The last streaks of sunlight stretched long shadows across the pavement, warm and lazy.

Valeria walked like she had nowhere to be, her sketchbook tucked under her arm, flipping a pencil between her fingers. I fell into step beside her, hands in my pockets, waiting to see if she’d say something first.

She did.

“So, do you actually talk, or was that whole asking-me-out thing just a one-time miracle?”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “You want me to talk?”

“Well, yeah. Otherwise, what’s the point of this walk?”

I glanced at her. “Maybe you just like my company.”

She smirked. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

We crossed the street, moving past a convenience store with flickering lights. Its display window was filled with random junk—dusty magazines, knockoff action figures, neon-colored candy. Valeria slowed, tapping the glass with her finger.

“Used to come here all the time,” she said. “The guy at the counter would let me buy those little fruit-flavored cigarettes.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You smoked?”

She grinned. “Candy ones, yeah.”

I shook my head, smirking. “Rebel.”

She shrugged. “And you? What kind of trouble did you get into?”

I thought about that for a second. “Nothing exciting. Just tried not to get caught.”

She laughed. “That’s what all the bad kids say.”

We kept walking. The streetlights flickered on one by one, casting long pools of light onto the sidewalk. The city was waking up in little ways—the distant hum of traffic, a muffled song playing from a passing car, the sound of someone laughing in a nearby alley.

At some point, we reached a small bridge that stretched over a quiet river. Valeria leaned against the railing, setting her sketchbook down, tapping her fingers absently against the metal. I stood beside her, watching the water move lazily beneath us.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then she turned slightly, looking at me—not just in passing, but really looking.

I met her gaze.

We made eye contact—her brown eyes staring at me like stars, illuminating my soul. With every gaze, my heart was made whole.

I swallowed. Looked away too fast. Focused on the water instead.

She didn’t say anything about it, but I felt her watching me. Like she’d already figured me out, and she was just waiting for me to catch up.

After a moment, she pushed off the railing and started walking again. “Come on, mystery artist. Keep up.”

And just like that, I followed.

The Arcade Bet
We kept walking.

The streets blurred past in slow motion—neon signs flickering to life, the distant bass of music from some passing car, the low hum of conversation from people spilling out of shops and cafés. Valeria walked half a step ahead of me, her hands in her jacket pockets, her sketchbook tucked under one arm. She moved like she belonged everywhere, like the city was hers and she was just letting me tag along.

Then she stopped.

I nearly bumped into her before I noticed the glowing sign above us.

A small arcade, half-hidden between a laundromat and a closed bookstore. The windows glowed with soft, colored lights, and inside, I could hear the chaotic symphony of electronic bleeps, fast-paced music, and the occasional shout of victory or defeat.

Valeria turned toward me, smirking.

“You any good?”

I raised an eyebrow. “At what?”

She tilted her head toward the arcade. “Anything in there.”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “I can hold my own.”

“Perfect.” She pushed open the door. “Let’s make it interesting.”

I followed her inside. The air smelled like old carpet, machine oil, and cheap snacks. A couple of kids hovered around the prize counter, and in the back, a group of guys were aggressively mashing buttons at a fighting game.

Valeria led the way until she found what she was looking for—a classic Street Fighter II machine, its screen slightly faded, the joysticks worn smooth. She cracked her knuckles like this was some kind of pre-battle ritual.

“Alright,” she said. “Winner gets to ask the loser a question. No dodging.”

I leaned against the machine, considering. “Any question?”

She nodded. “Any question.”

I smirked. “You sure you want to risk that?”

She scoffed. “Please. I’ve been playing this since I was a kid.” She slotted a coin into the machine. “You ready to lose, mystery artist?”

I rolled my shoulders, cracking my neck. “We’ll see.”

We picked our characters. The game started.

And within the first round, I knew I was in trouble.

Valeria wasn’t just good—she was fast. Her fingers moved with ridiculous precision, executing combos like she wasn’t even thinking about it. I managed to put up a fight, but every time I thought I had an opening, she shut it down.

Seconds later, my health bar drained to nothing.

“K.O.”

Valeria grinned, nudging my arm. “That was cute. Want me to go easy on you next round?”

I exhaled through my nose, shaking my head. “No chance.”

I got closer the second round. Learned some of her tricks. Adapted. But in the end—

“K.O.”

She won again.

Valeria spun toward me, arms crossed, victorious. “Alright, mystery artist. Time to pay up.”

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “Go ahead.”

She tapped a finger against her chin, pretending to think. Then, she looked me dead in the eye and said—

“Why’d you really ask me out?”

I blinked.

That was… not what I expected.

I shifted my weight, considering my answer. “Felt like the right thing to do.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s a non-answer.”

I sighed, glancing away. “I don’t know. I just—” I hesitated. “I kept noticing you.”

For the first time since I met her, Valeria didn’t immediately have a comeback.

She just watched me, like she was waiting for me to say something else.

I exhaled a quiet laugh. “And I figured if I was gonna keep staring at you, I might as well make it official.”

That made her smile. Not a smirk, not a teasing grin—just a small, genuine smile.

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then—

“Alright.” She tossed a coin to me. “Double or nothing.”

I caught it. “You sure? I might win this time.”

She smirked. “I hope you do. I’ve got a few questions of my own.”

I shook my head, smiling, and slotted the coin into the machine.

Round two.

Rainstorm Confession
We never made it to round two.

By the time we stepped out of the arcade, the sky had darkened. The streetlights flickered on, casting long shadows over the sidewalk. The air felt heavier, charged, like the sky was holding its breath.

Then, the first raindrop hit my cheek.

I glanced up.

Another. Then another.

Within seconds, the sky opened up.

A full downpour. Sudden, merciless. Cold water pelted down in sheets, drenching the pavement, the neon signs, the people who scrambled for cover under shop awnings.

Valeria just stood there.

She tilted her head back, eyes closed, letting the rain spill over her face. Her glasses fogged up instantly, but she didn’t wipe them. Didn’t move. Just breathed, like she was absorbing the moment.

I hesitated.

Then, slowly, I stepped forward, standing beside her as the rain soaked through my hoodie, my hair, everything.

I shivered. She didn’t.

“Not gonna run?” I asked.

She opened her eyes, looking at me through wet lashes. “Why would I?”

I exhaled, shaking my head. “Because we’re getting drenched?”

She shrugged. “So?”

I didn’t have an answer to that.

For a few seconds, we just stood there, the world around us fading into the white noise of rain against pavement. The sound of cars splashing through puddles. The distant, muffled laughter of people huddled under awnings.

Then—

“Do you ever feel like you’re waiting for something?”

I turned my head toward her. “What?”

She kept staring up at the sky. “Like… you don’t know what it is, but you’re waiting for it anyway.”

Something in her voice made me pause.

I could’ve said no. Could’ve laughed it off, thrown back some sarcastic comment, changed the subject.

Instead, I told the truth.

“…Yeah.”

She looked at me then. Really looked.

We made eye contact—her brown eyes shining in the dim light, rain streaming down her face.

For a second, I thought she was about to say something else. But then she just smiled. Small. Barely there.

And then—

She grabbed my hand and pulled me into the street.

“Come on,” she said.

I blinked. “Where—”

“Nowhere.”

And just like that, she started running.

I barely had time to react before I stumbled forward, keeping up as best as I could. The rain pounded against us, cold and relentless, but Valeria didn’t slow down. She laughed—laughed—like this was the best thing in the world.

And maybe, for her, it was.

By the time we finally stopped, both of us were out of breath, dripping water onto the cracked pavement. My heart was pounding. Not just from running.

Valeria pushed her wet hair out of her face, breathless.

I shook my head, letting out a short laugh. “You’re insane.”

She grinned. “Took you long enough to figure that out.”

I exhaled, glancing away. “You’re gonna get sick.”

“So will you.”

She had a point.

Silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t awkward. Just heavy, like something unspoken was lingering between the raindrops.

Then—softly—she said,

“I’m glad you asked me out.”

I looked at her.

She wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t teasing. Just honest.

And for once, I didn’t look away.

“…Me too,” I said.

She smiled again. Then, with a small shake of her head, she turned toward the street.

“Come on, mystery artist,” she murmured. “Let’s get out of the rain.”

And just like that, she started walking.

I followed.

The Sketch She Won’t Show Me
The rain had stopped by the time we reached Valeria’s neighborhood. The streets were still slick, reflecting the orange glow of streetlights, and the air smelled fresh—like wet pavement and the last breath of a passing storm.

We walked in comfortable silence.

It wasn’t the kind of silence that begged to be filled. It was the kind that settled in easy, stretching between us like an unspoken understanding.

Then, she stopped.

I almost kept walking before I realized she’d fallen behind.

When I turned, I saw her standing beneath the glow of a flickering streetlamp, flipping through her sketchbook. Her fingers traced the edges of a page, hesitating.

I tilted my head. “What is it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the page like it held something she wasn’t sure she wanted to share.

Then, she snapped the sketchbook shut.

“Nothing.”

I narrowed my eyes. “That was the guiltiest ‘nothing’ I’ve ever heard.”

She smirked but didn’t meet my gaze. Instead, she hugged the sketchbook to her chest like a shield. “It’s not finished.”

That only made me more curious.

“You gonna show me?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like I’m gonna show you?”

“…No, but I figured I’d ask anyway.”

Her smirk deepened. “Points for trying.”

I took a step closer. “What’s the big deal?”

For the first time since I’d met her, she hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second, but I caught it.

“It’s just—” She exhaled, running a hand through her damp hair. “I don’t usually show people my work until it’s done.”

I considered that.

I wasn’t sure why it mattered so much to me—why I suddenly wanted to know what she had drawn, or why she was keeping it hidden.

But instead of pushing, I just nodded.

“Alright.”

She blinked, like she hadn’t expected me to drop it that easily.

“…Alright?”

I shrugged. “Yeah. You’ll show me when you’re ready.”

She studied me for a second.

Then—softer—she said,

“You really mean that, don’t you?”

I held her gaze. “Yeah.”

A pause. Then, so quiet I almost didn’t hear it—

“…That’s new.”

Before I could ask what she meant, she turned on her heel and kept walking.

And even though she never showed me that sketch, I had a feeling I already knew what it was.

We reached her house too soon.

It wasn’t anything special—just a quiet, two-story place with a small front yard, the porch light buzzing faintly against the dark. But as we stood at the edge of her driveway, neither of us moved to say goodnight.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, glancing at her. “Well.”

She exhaled, shifting her weight. “Well.”

The street was quiet. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, and a car rumbled past, headlights sweeping over us before disappearing into the night.

For a second, I thought about saying something. About making a joke to break the tension, about asking her if she was still going to pretend she wasn’t drawing me in that sketchbook of hers.

But I didn’t.

Because for the first time since meeting her, Valeria wasn’t smirking.

She wasn’t teasing, wasn’t throwing out some clever remark to keep me guessing.

She was just looking at me—like she was waiting for something.

Like she wasn’t ready to go inside just yet.

I swallowed. “So—”

“You should get going,” she said suddenly.

I blinked. “Oh.”

She shifted again, gripping her sketchbook a little tighter. “It’s late.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

She took half a step back.

Then stopped.

Like she had something else to say.

I waited.

But she just exhaled and shook her head.

“…Never mind.”

I opened my mouth—about to ask what—but she was already turning toward the house.

“See you, Lucanus,” she called over her shoulder.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

I watched her disappear inside, the door clicking shut behind her.

But as I stood there for another second—longer than I should have—I had a feeling this goodbye wasn’t really finished.

The Late-Night Walk
I didn’t go home right away.

Something about the quiet, empty streets kept me walking, my footsteps echoing against the pavement. The night air was cool, the streetlights buzzing faintly overhead, casting long shadows on the sidewalk. It wasn’t late enough for the city to feel completely asleep, but it was close.

I wasn’t sure where I was going.

Or maybe I was.

Because when I heard footsteps behind me—light, unhurried—I wasn’t surprised when I turned and saw her.

Valeria stood a few feet away, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, watching me with that same unreadable expression from earlier.

“You walk slow,” she said.

I raised an eyebrow. “You following me?”

She smirked. “You wish.”

I huffed a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “Didn’t think I’d see you again tonight.”

She shrugged, stepping up beside me. “I couldn’t sleep.”

I glanced at her, searching her expression, but she didn’t offer anything else. Just started walking again, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like this wasn’t weird.

Like this was normal.

So I fell into step beside her, neither of us saying anything for a while. The city felt different at night—slower, softer, like the world had exhaled and let everything settle. No crowds, no noise, just the occasional passing car and the distant hum of life moving on without us.

At some point, I noticed the way she walked—deliberate, but easy, like she belonged in this moment, like she knew exactly where she was going even if there wasn’t a destination.

She glanced up, catching me looking.

“What?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

She hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t press.

Instead, she kicked a loose pebble down the sidewalk, her voice quieter when she finally said, “It’s nice like this.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

A pause.

Then—softer—“You ever just wish you could keep walking?”

I turned my head slightly, but she wasn’t looking at me. Just ahead, toward the empty road stretching on into the distance.

She hadn’t said it in a way that needed an answer.

But still, I found myself saying, “Yeah.”

She exhaled, a small breath of something I couldn’t quite name.

And for the first time since meeting her, I got the feeling that maybe she wasn’t ready to go home either.

The streets had quieted, the distant hum of traffic fading into something softer, almost rhythmic, like the city itself was breathing. The night stretched wide above us, deep and endless, the stars barely visible against the glow of streetlights. It smelled like warm pavement and something faintly sweet—maybe the lingering scent of rain from earlier, or just the way the air always seemed different at night.

Neither of us had said much for the past few blocks. But it wasn’t the kind of silence that begged to be broken. It was something easier, something that settled between us naturally, like it had been there all along, waiting.

Valeria walked a little ahead, her steps light, unhurried, like she had nowhere to be but still knew exactly where she was going. Every so often, she glanced up—not at me, but at the buildings, the rooftops, the empty sky stretching overhead. It was like she was looking for something. Or maybe she had already found it, and I just hadn’t caught on yet.

Then she stopped.

She turned to face me, her smirk barely visible in the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp. “You trust me?”

I blinked. The question came out of nowhere, but the way she said it—half a challenge, half an invitation—made me hesitate. Not because I didn’t trust her. Because I wasn’t sure what trusting her was about to lead to.

I raised an eyebrow. “Should I?”

She didn’t answer. Just tilted her chin toward something behind me.

I turned and followed her gaze, my eyes landing on an old metal fire escape bolted to the side of a building. It stretched upward, disappearing into the shadows of the rooftop above. Rust clung to the edges of the ladder, and the bolts looked like they had been there longer than either of us had been alive. It wasn’t exactly inviting.

I exhaled, dragging a hand through my hair. “This is the part where I regret asking you out, isn’t it?”

She grinned. “Too late for regrets.”

Then, before I could even think about saying no, she reached up, grabbed onto the lowest rung, and pulled herself up.

I watched as she climbed, her movements smooth, practiced. Like she had done this before. Like she belonged up there more than she belonged down here.

For a second, I just stood there, hands in my pockets, staring after her. I could still turn back. I could let her have this moment to herself, pretend I had something better to do than chase after a girl who had already figured me out better than I had figured out myself.

Then I sighed.

And climbed.

The Conversation
We sat there, side by side, the night stretched out in front of us like an open road. The rooftop was quiet, the city humming below, alive but distant. Up here, we were separate from it all. Just two people, floating above the world.

Valeria rested her arms on her knees, gazing out over the skyline. Her hair shifted slightly in the breeze. She looked peaceful. Thoughtful. Like she belonged here.

I glanced at her. “So, why this place?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she tapped a rhythm against her knee with her fingers, like she was measuring the silence before speaking.

“I like the view,” she finally said.

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

She smirked. “Were you expecting something poetic?”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

Valeria exhaled, tilting her head slightly. “I don’t know. Things just feel different up here. The noise fades. Everything looks smaller.”

She didn’t have to say the rest—I understood.

She turned to me. “What about you? You don’t seem like the rooftop type.”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “What type do I seem like?”

She studied me for a second. “Like someone who doesn’t stay in one place for long.”

I didn’t answer immediately. I wasn’t sure if she meant it as a passing remark or something deeper. Either way, she wasn’t wrong.

I leaned forward, resting my arms on my knees. “Maybe I just never had a reason to.”

Valeria tapped her fingers against her knee again, like she was drawing invisible shapes in the air. Then she turned back to the city.

“And now?”

I smirked. “Guess I’ll find out.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

A Small but Meaningful Moment
We sat there, watching the stars. Neither of us spoke for a while, and somehow, it didn’t feel awkward.

Then, without thinking, she pointed up.

“That one.”

I followed her gaze. “Which one?”

She moved her hand slightly, tracing the sky with her fingertip. “Right there. It looks like a cat.”

I squinted. “That’s a stretch.”

She scoffed. “You just have no imagination.”

“Says the girl making up constellations.”

She nudged me with her elbow, a teasing smile playing at her lips. “It’s called creativity. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

I shook my head, biting back a grin.

Then, for a moment, our hands brushed. Just barely. Neither of us pulled away.

Neither of us acknowledged it, either.

But I felt it.

The Departure
Valeria stretched, letting out a quiet breath. “Well, it’s late. I should head home.”

I sat up straighter. “I can take you home.”

She turned to me, shaking her head before I could stand. “No. It’s late, and I don’t want you to worry about me.” She hesitated. “Go home for me. Please.”

There was something about the way she said it—soft, but firm. She wasn’t asking.

I held her gaze for a second before exhaling, nodding. “…Alright.”

A small smile touched her lips. “Good.”

She stood, brushing dust from her jeans, then turned toward the exit.

I watched her go, sitting there in the stillness she left behind.

Then I sighed, running a hand through my hair.

The rooftop felt quieter without her in it.

I got home, but I didn’t feel home.

Tossed my keys onto the counter. Let my jacket slide off my shoulders. Stood there for a second, waiting for something to settle.

Nothing did.

The house was quiet in a way that made me restless. The kind of silence that didn’t let your thoughts rest, just stretched them out, made them louder. I could hear the hum of the fridge, the distant ticking of a clock, my own breathing—slow, measured, like I was trying to convince myself I was fine.

I wasn’t.

No, it’s late. I don’t want you to worry about me. Go home for me, please.

I should’ve argued. Should’ve insisted. Something in the way she said it made me hesitate, though. Like she was drawing a line. Not because she wanted to, but because she thought she had to.

And I let her.

Now I was here, standing in my dimly lit kitchen, feeling like I’d left something unfinished. Maybe I had. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between us, something I didn’t quite understand yet.

I ran a hand down my face, exhaling slowly. She’s just some girl from art class. That’s what I told myself. That’s what made sense.

But then why was she still in my head?

Why did I keep thinking about the way she looked at me under the streetlights, brown eyes catching just enough glow to look like stars? Why did her voice stick with me, the way she said my name like it meant something? Why did I keep replaying that moment before she walked away, like something had slipped through my fingers before I even had the chance to hold onto it?

I didn’t have the answers.

All I knew was that I wasn’t going to sleep easy tonight.

The Morning After
I woke up to the sound of my alarm, but for the first time in a while, I didn’t get up right away. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, my mind still tangled up in last night.

Valeria’s voice was still in my head. Go home for me, please.

I exhaled, rubbing a hand over my face. The way she said it—it wasn’t a request, not really. It was something else. A push. A test. Maybe just a simple truth.

And the worst part? I listened.

I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. That I wasn’t overthinking it. But then why did it feel like something had shifted? Like I had stepped onto unsteady ground without realizing it?

I eventually forced myself out of bed, moving through my morning routine on autopilot. Breakfast tasted like nothing. The mirror reflected back a version of me I barely recognized—tired eyes, a restless energy beneath the surface.

My mom passed by, eyeing me for a second. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

She didn’t push. Just gave a small, knowing hum before moving on.

Fine. Right. If I kept saying it, maybe I’d believe it.

As I grabbed my bag and headed for the door, my thoughts drifted back to Valeria. Would she even acknowledge last night? Or would she act like nothing happened?

Somehow, I already knew the answer.

The Unexpected Encounter
The walk to school felt longer than usual. The air was crisp, the kind that lingered between the last breaths of summer and the first whispers of fall. The kind of morning that made everything feel sharper, more alive.

I didn’t expect to see her right away. Maybe not at all. Maybe she’d be late, or maybe she’d already slipped into class, blending into the background like she always did.

But then, as I turned the corner toward the main entrance—I saw her.

She was sitting on the low brick wall near the parking lot, sketchbook open on her lap, pencil moving in quick, confident strokes. Headphones in. Eyes down.

For a second, I almost kept walking.

But then, as if sensing me, she glanced up.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just held my gaze, her brown eyes unreadable.

I nodded. “Morning.”

She pulled out one earbud. “You survived the night?”

I huffed a quiet laugh, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. “Barely.”

A small smirk played at the corner of her lips. “Figures.”

I glanced at her sketchbook. “What are you working on?”

She tilted it just enough for me to see. Another cityscape. This one had more detail than the last—rooftops, streetlights, the rough outline of people in the distance.

“Looks good,” I said.

She tapped her pencil against the page. “You keep saying that. You should give better critiques.”

I shrugged. “I just call it how I see it.”

Valeria studied me for a second, like she was trying to decide if I meant that. Then she closed her sketchbook and stood, stretching her arms behind her head.

“You gonna pretend last night didn’t happen?”

I hesitated. “Depends.”

“On?”

I smirked. “On whether you’re gonna keep pretending you didn’t care.”

She blinked once, then let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

I grinned. “I try.”

She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t look away.

The Challenge
We ended up at the arcade again after school. I didn’t suggest it. Neither did she. It just happened—like we both knew we weren’t done yet.

The neon lights buzzed overhead, the air thick with the smell of popcorn and the distant clang of pinball machines. Kids ran past us, tokens clinking in their hands. A group of middle schoolers crowded around the claw machine, cheering as one of them finally snagged a stuffed bear.

Valeria stopped in front of the same fighting game from last time. She flicked a token between her fingers before sliding it into the slot.

“You still think you can beat me?” I asked, crossing my arms.

She didn’t even look at me. Just selected her character with practiced ease. “I don’t think—I know.”

I smirked. “Then prove it.”

I picked my character—some heavy-hitting mercenary with a grappling hook and brutal combos. She went with the same quick, acrobatic assassin she always chose. The countdown started.

Round 1.

Valeria came out swinging—fast, precise, overwhelming. Her character darted across the screen, landing a chain of hits before I could even react. My health bar dropped hard.

“Damn,” I muttered, adjusting my grip.

She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “What’s wrong? Can’t keep up?”

I gritted my teeth and refocused.

I started to adapt, playing more defensively, watching her movements. She liked to bait me into attacking first. I stopped falling for it.

Slowly, I chipped away at her lead, blocking more, countering when I could. She leaned in slightly, focused, biting the inside of her cheek.

The fight got closer. I could hear her exhale sharply when I dodged a combo, could see the flicker of frustration when I caught her off guard.

I grinned. “What’s wrong? Can’t keep up?”

She narrowed her eyes, but before she could fire back—

KO.

My character’s final blow sent hers crashing to the ground. The screen flashed Player One Wins.

For a second, neither of us moved.

Then Valeria exhaled, leaning back. She clicked her tongue, crossing her arms. “Lucky shot.”

I stretched my arms. “Guess I’m not so pathetic after all.”

She rolled her shoulders. “Rematch.”

“Thought you didn’t let your ego get in the way?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Shut up and play.”

And we did. Again. And again.

And if I paid a little too much attention to the way her lips curled into a smirk when she finally won? If I caught myself watching her more than the screen?

Well. I wasn’t ready to think about that yet.

A Moment of Hesitation
We played a few more rounds, but after a while, we both knew it wasn’t really about the game anymore.

The arcade started to thin out. The bright neon lights flickered against the glass, casting strange, shifting reflections.

For a while, neither of us said anything. Just stood there, the hum of the machines filling the space between us.

Then, before we could talk ourselves out of it—

“Walk me home.”

The words left her mouth so casually, like they didn’t mean anything.

But I knew better.

She didn’t wait for an answer. Just started walking, knowing I’d follow.

And I did.

Because no matter how much I told myself otherwise—

I already would’ve followed her anywhere.

The Rush to School
After that day, I started hurrying to school.

It wasn’t something I planned. It just happened.

Before, mornings had no urgency. I’d wake up slowly, stare at the ceiling for too long, push myself out of bed only when I had to. Breakfast was whatever I could grab without much effort. Getting out the door was a formality, not a priority.

But now?

Now, I was dressed and out before my family had a chance to fully wake up.

At first, I convinced myself it was just habit. A change in routine. Nothing deliberate. But I wasn’t fooling anyone.

Especially not my mom.

She stood in the kitchen, holding her usual cup of coffee, watching me like I was some rare creature that had wandered into her house.

"What’s with the rush?"

I shrugged, adjusting my bag over my shoulder. "Nothing. Gotta go."

I was already halfway to the door when my brother’s voice cut through the quiet morning.

"I bet it’s a girl."

I slowed.

He was sitting at the counter, half-asleep, stirring his cereal like it personally offended him. He didn’t even look up—just smirked like he had the whole thing figured out.

"Lucanus finally has a reason to care about school."

I scoffed, shaking my head, but I didn’t deny it. That would’ve made it worse.

Instead, I just left.

But even as I walked down the street, his words stuck with me.

Because what was I supposed to say?

That I wanted to get there before her? That I liked those quiet moments before the school filled up, when I had a chance to see her without an audience?

That something about the way she looked at me made my mind slow down, just a little?

I didn’t even know what I was hoping for.

I just knew I wanted to see her.

The Whispers in the Halls
It started as a feeling.

You ever get that sense—like you’re being watched? Not in a paranoid way, just a slight shift in the air. The weight of attention when you walk past a group of people. The way voices dip just enough to make you know they were talking about you.

At first, I ignored it.

Or maybe I chose not to hear it.

But the fragments started slipping through.

"She only hangs out with him now."

"Think they’re together?"

"No way. She doesn’t date."

That one stood out.

Then came the one that made something twist inside me—

"Or maybe she’s just picky. I mean, she’s hot."

I stopped at my locker. Fingers hovered over the combination dial, but I wasn’t paying attention anymore.

I exhaled slowly. Forced my hands to move.

I didn’t like it.

But I didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

Valeria’s Take
If Valeria knew, she didn’t show it.

She moved through the halls the same way she always did—calm, deliberate, like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

It took me a few days to bring it up.

We were sitting on the steps behind the school, away from most people. She was flipping through her sketchbook, her pencil tapping against the page in an absent rhythm.

"You hear what people are saying?"

She barely glanced up. "I hear a lot of things."

"About us."

That got a reaction. Not much—just a slight raise of her brows before she smirked.

"Let them talk." She stretched her arms behind her, leaning back against the concrete. "They’ll get bored eventually."

She sounded like she believed that. Like she wanted to believe that.

But I noticed the little things.

The way she hesitated for half a second before sitting next to me in class.

The way her usual confidence felt more measured, like she was aware of it in a way she wasn’t before.

The way her fingers hovered over her sketchbook before flipping it open, like she was deciding whether or not to draw at all.

She was still Valeria.

Still sharp. Still quick-witted. Still unbothered.

But something was different.

The First Defense
It happened in class.

One of those filler days—where the teacher droned on, the clock ticked too slow, and half the class had checked out.

I wasn’t paying attention.

My pen tapped against the edge of my notebook, my focus drifting.

Then I heard it.

A couple of desks over.

"I bet she’s crazy. The quiet ones always are."

I blinked.

"Think she’s playing hard to get?"

My grip tightened on my pen.

"Or just playing him?"

I didn’t think.

I just turned.

"You got something to say?"

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t angry. Just an even-toned question.

The guy blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

I kept looking at him. Didn’t repeat myself.

A few seconds stretched between us.

Then he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Relax, man."

He turned back around. The conversation ended.

But the shift in the room was obvious.

People looked at me. Looked at Valeria. Then looked away.

I wasn’t sure if I’d made things better or worse.

Valeria’s Reaction
Later, she found me at my locker.

Didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned against the metal doors, arms crossed, watching me.

I ignored her. Kept switching out books like I didn’t see her there.

Didn’t work.

"Didn’t know you cared."

I exhaled through my nose. "I don’t."

She smirked. "Right."

I didn’t answer.

She didn’t thank me.

Didn’t tell me I was stupid for saying anything.

Just studied me for a long moment before finally saying—

"Guess I’ll have to start a new rumor. Make things interesting."

I frowned. "Valeria—"

But she was already walking away.

Things Change
After that, people watched us more.

The whispers didn’t stop.

If anything, they got worse.

And now, I was part of them.

The Second Defense
A few days later, it happened again.

This time, right in front of her.

We were in the cafeteria, and Valeria was flipping through her sketchbook when someone at the next table called out—

"Hey, Valeria, why don’t you draw us a picture of what it’s like to have no friends?"

I was already pushing back my chair, already halfway to shutting them down—

But she got there first.

Didn’t even blink.

Just turned her head slightly, looked at the guy, then smirked.

"Why? Need help imagining it?"

Silence.

The guy’s friend snorted—at him, not at her.

Valeria just shrugged and went back to her sketchbook like she hadn’t just dismantled him in five words.

I sat back down, shaking my head.

She didn’t need me to defend her.

But I still would.

The Observation – When Noticing Becomes Something Else
I don’t know when I started paying attention.

At first, it was just small things. The way Valeria tapped her fingers against the side of her sketchbook when she was deep in thought. The way she adjusted her glasses—a quick, nervous habit—when she caught someone looking at her too long. The way she’d chew the inside of her cheek when she was about to say something sarcastic but held back.

Then, I started noticing more.

How she’d subtly shift her body toward me when we talked, like she was naturally drawn closer without thinking about it. How she let out this short, amused exhale—almost a laugh—when she found something genuinely funny. How she got absorbed in her sketches, biting the end of her pencil absentmindedly, completely lost in the world she was creating on the page.

It wasn’t just noticing anymore.

It was something else.

I caught myself watching her when she wasn’t looking, like I was trying to figure something out. She had this way of slipping into my thoughts even when she wasn’t around, like a song stuck on repeat. And it wasn’t even that I was trying to figure out her. It was… something deeper.

Like I was trying to figure out why she felt so different from everyone else.

The Test – How Far Will He Go?
Valeria liked to push boundaries.

Not in an obvious way. She didn’t do it to be mean or get a reaction just for the hell of it. It was subtle—little comments, little choices. Just enough to see what I’d do.

Like the time she dropped her sketchbook on my desk in class without a word, leaving it there as she talked to someone else, like she wanted me to open it. I knew she was aware of how guarded she was about her work. I also knew she was waiting to see if I’d take the risk.

I didn’t.

When she came back and saw the book untouched, she smirked, like I’d passed some kind of invisible test.

Or the time we were walking after school, and she veered off the sidewalk toward a convenience store without asking if I was coming. She just expected me to follow. And I did, without hesitation.

She noticed.

Then there were the moments when she’d say something slightly personal, just enough to leave the door open for me to ask more—but not enough that I had to.

Like, “My parents don’t really care where I go after school.”

Or, “I had to teach myself how to draw properly. No one in my family really gave a ♥♥♥♥.”

She never volunteered more than that, but she was watching me every time. Waiting.

And I realized something.

She was testing if I’d push. If I’d pry. If I’d take the invitation.

I never did.

Not because I wasn’t curious.

But because I knew if she wanted me to know something, she’d tell me.

And somehow, that answer was enough for her.

The Almost Confession – When Words Almost Change Everything
It was late. Not too late, but the kind of late where the streets were quiet and the world felt smaller. We were sitting on the curb outside some random café we’d stopped at, our drinks half-finished between us.

The conversation had slowed, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Valeria was doodling on her napkin with the little complimentary pen they gave out at the counter, her lines lazy but precise. I was watching the steam curl off my coffee, letting the silence settle.

Then, out of nowhere, she asked, “You ever think about what you’d be doing if we hadn’t met?”

It caught me off guard. Not because it was a weird question, but because I realized—no, I hadn’t.

Somewhere along the way, she’d become part of my routine. My life. And the idea of it being any different felt… wrong.

I should’ve said something.

But before I could, a voice cut through the quiet.

“Valeria?”

We both turned.

Some guy was standing a few feet away, looking surprised to see her. He wasn’t anyone I recognized, but from the way Valeria’s expression flickered—just for a second—I knew she recognized him.

The moment was gone.

She rolled her shoulders back, slipping into something effortless, unreadable. “Hey.”

He smiled, glancing between us. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Yeah, well. Life’s full of surprises.”

The guy laughed. It was easy, familiar. “Still sketching everything you see?”

Valeria’s grip on her pen tightened, just slightly. “Something like that.”

I stayed quiet. I wasn’t sure why, but I could tell this wasn’t just some casual run-in for her.

After a few minutes of awkward small talk, the guy finally left. Valeria watched him go, then exhaled, tapping her pen against the napkin.

I didn’t push.

But the almost-confession stuck with me.

And I had the feeling it stuck with her, too.

The Unspoken – When Trust is the Real Question
A few days later, she asked, “Why didn’t you ask?”

We were at our usual spot on the school rooftop, leaning against the railing, the wind cool against our faces.

I glanced at her. “Ask what?”

She adjusted her glasses—a quick, nervous habit. “About the other night. The guy.”

I shrugged. “Didn’t seem like you wanted to talk about it.”

She studied me for a long second, then looked away, her fingers tapping absently against the railing. “Most people would’ve asked anyway.”

“I’m not most people.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “No. You’re not.”

Something about the way she said it made my chest feel tight.

Like she was trying to decide if that was a good thing or not.

After a long silence, she exhaled. “It was nothing.”

She didn’t owe me an explanation, and I wasn’t expecting one.

But she gave me one anyway.

“Just someone I used to know,” she added, her voice softer this time. “Not really part of my life anymore.”

I nodded. “Alright.”

That was it. No pushing. No prying.

And for the first time, I saw something in her expression I hadn’t seen before.

Trust.

Not much. Just a sliver.

But it was there.

And I realized, maybe for the first time, that it wasn’t just about what she said or didn’t say.

It was about the fact that, for some reason, she wanted me to be the one to know.

The Line Between – When Does Friendship Become Something More?
I didn’t notice it at first.

The way Valeria’s laughter lingered a second too long, the way she nudged my arm and let her touch stay there before pulling back. How she tilted her head when she was listening, her brown hair falling over her shoulder, eyes sharp and thoughtful behind her glasses.

It was in the little things. The way she played with the hem of her sleeve when she was holding back from saying something. How she tapped her fingers on the desk in thought, the same pattern over and over again.

And me?

I caught myself leaning in when she spoke. Not because I couldn’t hear her—just because I wanted to be closer. I started recognizing the exact second her confidence faltered, how she adjusted her glasses when she was uncertain. And I knew, without understanding why, that I was paying attention to her in a way I never had before.

She must’ve noticed, because one afternoon, after class, she smirked and said, “You keep staring at me, mystery artist. Something on my face?”

I had a dozen ways I could’ve answered. Some deflection, something casual. But for once, I didn’t have anything to say.

She didn’t press. Just gave me a look—like she knew something I didn’t.

And maybe, in that moment, she did.

The Routine That Wasn’t Just a Routine – When Waiting Became Automatic
We always walked to school together.

It wasn’t planned. It just happened.

Every morning, I’d find myself at the usual spot, waiting. Sometimes ten minutes, sometimes five. I never asked her to hurry, never texted to see where she was. I just stood there, hands in my pockets, watching for the moment she turned the corner.

And she always did.

Some days she was quiet, focused on whatever thoughts were running through her head. Other days, she’d greet me with some random comment—complaining about a bad dream, telling me about a sketch she couldn’t get right, or teasing me for looking like I hadn’t slept.

But she always showed up.

And for some reason, that mattered.

The Late-Night Call – A Moment of Vulnerability
It was almost midnight when my phone buzzed.

I wasn’t expecting a call. Definitely not from her. But when I saw Valeria’s name on the screen, I answered without thinking.

“Did I wake you?” Her voice was softer than usual, quieter.

“No.” A lie.

She didn’t explain why she called, and I didn’t ask. Instead, she talked about random things—how she’d been sketching but couldn’t get the proportions right, how she found a song that reminded her of something but couldn’t figure out what.

I leaned against my bedroom wall, listening.

It should’ve felt strange, this late-night conversation with no real purpose. But it didn’t.

Somewhere between the silence and the sound of her breathing on the other end, I realized I didn’t want this to be temporary.

Before she hung up, she said, “Thanks for picking up.”

And that was it. A simple sentence. But the way she said it—like it meant something—stayed with me long after the call ended.

The Jealousy He Didn’t Expect – When Someone Else Catches Her Attention
I never thought of myself as the jealous type.

Then I saw him.

Some guy from our class—charming, confident, the kind of guy who never second-guessed himself. He made her laugh. Not the polite kind, not the smirk she threw at me when she was amused—but a real laugh. And the worst part? She let him lean in too close.

I told myself it didn’t matter.

But later, when she walked over and nudged my arm, I was colder than I meant to be.

She raised an eyebrow. “What’s with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.” She studied me for a second, then smirked. “You sure you don’t have something to say?”

I didn’t. Not anything I was willing to admit.

But I hated how much I wanted to.

She was all smiles. But one day, that changed.

Now, she’s unhappy, and I don’t know why.

It’s not like she told me. I asked. She brushed it off. I told a few of her friends—they said they didn’t know either.

At first, I thought it was just a bad day. But bad days don’t stretch into weeks. They don’t make someone stop showing up in the places they always were.

Lately, Valeria has been… different.

I still wait for her in the mornings, standing on the same stretch of sidewalk. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Most days, she doesn’t come. The first time, I figured she overslept. The second time, I thought maybe she had something to do. But after the third, the fourth, the fifth, I stopped making excuses.

She’s avoiding me.

And I don’t know why.

When I do see her, she’s distant. Her usual energy is gone, replaced by something muted—like she’s forcing herself through the day. She still talks to me, still exists in my space, but something’s missing. I see it in the way she adjusts her glasses too much, in the way her hands stay buried in her pockets. I see it in the way she glances around, as if she’s making sure no one’s paying attention.

I notice the details now.

She barely eats. When she’s at lunch, she just sits there, pushing food around or scribbling in her sketchbook like it’s a lifeline. She’s distracted in class. The Valeria I knew—the one who always had some smartass comment or a teasing remark—has been replaced with someone who barely looks me in the eye.

And today?

Today, I decide I’m done pretending not to see it.

The Breaking Point
Lunch. The cafeteria is loud, filled with the usual chaos—people talking, laughing, chairs scraping against the floor.

And there’s Valeria.

She’s at her usual spot, but something about her isn’t usual. She’s hunched over her sketchbook, but she’s not drawing. She’s just staring at the page, pencil resting against the paper, unmoving.

I don’t think. I just move.

I slide into the seat across from her. No hesitation.

She blinks, looking up at me like she didn’t even notice I was there. Her eyes flick to mine, and for a second—just a second—something flickers there.

“Hey,” she says, voice flat.

Like I’m nobody.

I frown. “Where were you this morning?”

She exhales sharply, looking back at her sketchbook. “What?”

“You didn’t show up,” I say.

A shrug. “Didn’t feel like walking.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

A lie.

She taps her fingers against the table, once, twice, before shoving her hands into her hoodie pocket. She won’t meet my eyes.

“You’ve been acting weird,” I say.

She lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “I haven’t.”

I just look at her.

“Lucanus.” Her voice is light, forced. “I’m fine.”

She’s not.

“Valeria.”

I dropped my voice lower. “You don’t talk to me anymore. You barely look at me. You’re avoiding me, Valeria. Don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

Something shifts. She grips the edges of her sketchbook, knuckles turning white.

“I just—” She shakes her head, exhaling. “I don’t need this right now.”

“This?” I repeat.

She rubs at her wrist. “You following me around. Asking me things. Watching me like I’m—” Her breath stutters. She shakes her head. “Just… just leave me alone. Please.”

And the entire cafeteria goes silent.

Forks pause midair. Conversations die out. Every pair of eyes turns toward us, toward her—toward the girl who never raises her voice, now snapping at me like I’m some kind of problem.

Someone whispers something. A quiet chuckle comes from a table nearby.

Valeria freezes.

She didn’t mean to say it that loud.

She didn’t mean to make a scene.

Her hands tremble against the table, gripping the edge so tightly I think she might break it.

I open my mouth, but I don’t even know what to say.

Something breaks in her expression.

“I—” Her voice wavers. She stands too fast, the chair screeching against the floor.

And then—

She grabs her stuff and leaves.

No hesitation. No look back.

Just gone.

I sit there, staring at the empty space where she was.

The whispers keep going. Someone mutters something about me, about her. Another laugh.

I don’t move.

For the first time, I wonder if I already lost her.

If I ever really had her in the first place.

The cafeteria noise swallows her absence like it never happened. Conversations pick back up, forks clink against trays, and laughter rolls through the space as if nothing just shattered in front of me.

But I feel it.

I hear it in the ringing silence that lingers in my head, drowning out everything else.

She’s gone.

I should move. I should get up and follow her, or at least say something to cut through the thick weight settling in my chest. But I don’t.

I just sit there.

Across from an empty seat.

I can still see the faint indents on the table where her fingers had pressed in too hard. The way she gripped the edges, like she was holding on to something before she let go.

Someone nearby mutters something.

“That was awkward as hell.”

“Damn. Wonder what’s up with her?”

“Think they’re fighting?”

A quiet snicker.

It’s like nails dragging down my spine. I curl my fingers into fists against my lap. The urge to say something, to shut them up, flares up inside me, but I don’t even know what I’d be defending.

What am I supposed to say?

That it’s not like that? That I didn’t do anything? That I don’t even know why she’s acting this way?

Because I don’t.

I thought I did. I thought we were—

I don’t know.

The chair across from me is still empty, but it feels heavier than anything else in the room.

I force myself to take a breath. The air feels thick, like I have to fight to pull it into my lungs.

Then, finally, I stand.

I can feel eyes on me as I push away from the table, but I don’t give them anything. No reaction. No words. Just movement.

Out the cafeteria doors.

Into the hallway.

The sound dims, swallowed by the quiet hum of the school corridors. My feet carry me forward, but I don’t even know where I’m going.

Looking for her?

Maybe.

But she doesn’t want me to.

I replay her words in my head, over and over— Just leave me alone. Please.

Not an argument. Not frustration. Just exhaustion.

Like she’s tired of me.

I push a hand through my hair, exhaling.

I don’t know if I should listen to her.

But for the first time, I don’t know if I have a choice.

I find her exactly where I thought she’d be.

The art room is empty except for her, sitting near the window, sketchbook in her lap. The late afternoon light spills in, stretching long shadows across the floor. She's hunched over, pencil hovering above the page—but she isn’t drawing. Just staring.

I hesitate in the doorway.

For the first time, I don’t know if I should approach her.

After the cafeteria, after the way she looked at me like I was just another problem she didn’t want to deal with—I don’t know if she wants me here.

But then she shifts, exhaling sharply, and I see it.

She’s tired. Not just tired—drained. Like whatever’s been eating away at her is winning.

And that? That I can’t ignore.

I step inside. The floor creaks under my boots.

Her head snaps up, eyes locking onto mine. There’s a flicker of something—guilt? Annoyance? I can’t tell.

Her fingers curl around the edge of her sketchbook. “What are you doing here?”

I sit on the desk across from her, leaning forward. “Looking for you.”

She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “You need to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“This,” she gestures vaguely at me, at the space between us. “I told you to leave me alone.”

I stare at her, at the way she grips the edges of her sketchbook like it’s the only thing holding her together.

“Not happening.”

She lets out a bitter laugh. “Of course not.”

Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.

I lean forward. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I have not.”

“♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥.”

She tenses. Just for a second.

I see the crack in her armor.

“Val.” I keep my voice steady, calm. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

She exhales through her nose. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Then look me in the eyes and say that.”

She doesn’t.

Instead, she grips the strap of her bag like she’s about to bolt.

I sigh. “Valeria—”

“Lucanus.” She cuts me off, voice sharp. She finally looks at me, and there’s something raw in her eyes. “Why can’t you just let this go?”

I hold her gaze. “Because I care.”

That does something to her. Her breath stutters, and she swallows hard, her hands trembling slightly as she tightens her grip on the sketchbook.

For a second, I think she might actually say something.

But then, she shakes her head and stands abruptly. “I can’t do this.”

“Val—”

“No,” she snaps, louder this time. “I told you to leave me alone. Why can’t you just listen?”

She shoves her sketchbook into her bag too fast, too carelessly. It almost falls out, but she doesn’t notice.

“I just—” Her voice wavers. She shakes her head. “I don’t need you to fix me, Lucanus.”

“I’m not trying to fix you.”

Her breath catches.

I take a step closer. “I just don’t want you to go through this alone.”

For a moment, she just stands there, staring at the floor, her hands clenched into fists.

Then, she exhales and mutters, barely above a whisper, “You already lost me.”

And just like that—she turns and leaves.

No hesitation. No look back.

Just gone.

I stand there, heart pounding, staring at the space where she was.

Then I see it.

Her sketchbook.

Left behind, pages slightly curled, the cover worn from use.

She never forgets her sketchbook.

Never.

I don’t think. I just reach for it.

And when I flip it open—

I see me.

The Sketch She Left Behind
It’s me.

Drawn in pencil, precise and careful. Like she took her time. Like she studied me when I wasn’t paying attention.

I recognize the moment she captured.

A quiet afternoon at the park, months ago. I was sitting on the steps near the fountain, watching the sky. I didn’t even know she was drawing me then.

But here it is.

A side of me I’ve never really seen.

I trace my fingers over the lines. The shading, the depth—it’s all so intentional.

Like she was trying to say something she couldn’t put into words.

I flip through more pages.

Sketches of other things. Places we’ve been. People we’ve passed.

And me. Again.

Small sketches, half-finished ones. My hands, my profile, the way my hood falls over my eyes when I pull it up.

It hits me, all at once.

She sees me.

Even when she’s pulling away.

Even when she’s telling me to leave her alone.

She’s been looking at me—really looking at me—this whole time.

But why leave this behind?

A mistake? A subconscious slip?

Or is this her way of telling me something—without actually saying it?

I stare at the book in my hands.

For the first time since she started avoiding me, I don’t feel angry.

I just feel… lost.

And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.

Day One
The first day without her at school was easy to brush off. She’d been absent before, sick or just needing a break, and I figured it was nothing. But something felt different this time. The seat across from mine in class was empty—an absence that felt like a weight. Normally, Valeria would slide into her seat, that quiet confidence in her movements as she pulled out her sketchbook. She’d smile at me, not saying much, but it was always something—something to fill the air. But today? The chair sat there, untouched.

I kept glancing at the door, half-expecting her to walk in late, maybe with a sheepish look on her face, or an excuse. I waited. She didn’t come.

The day dragged on, my focus slipping in and out. I didn’t hear her laugh, didn’t catch her eye. It was like she didn’t exist. By the end of the day, my stomach felt tight, like something I couldn’t name was coiling inside me.

Day Two
I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The day started like any other, but the longer she stayed absent, the more I felt the weight of it. I asked her friends. Jenny just shrugged. “I don’t know. She said she was tired last night.”

But there was something in her eyes—something guarded. Something she wasn’t saying. It wasn’t just Jenny. I asked a few more people, and all of them seemed equally clueless, yet the way they glanced at each other made me feel like they were keeping something from me. They didn’t want to admit it, or maybe they couldn’t.

I tried texting Valeria, but the message sat unanswered, her little gray bubble telling me she hadn’t even read it. I frowned at my phone, fingers hovering over the screen. I wanted to send another message, something, anything to make sure she was okay. But I didn’t.

Maybe I didn’t want to push. Maybe I was afraid of what I’d hear if I did. But the worry started to creep in—small at first, but then growing with every passing hour.

Day Three
It felt wrong to let it go another day. My phone sat in front of me on the desk, taunting me, reminding me that I hadn’t tried harder. My fingers kept itching to reach out, to text her again, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. There was this odd hesitation, like something was pulling me back, holding me still. What if I was just overthinking it? What if I was making something out of nothing?

But then I remembered her smile, the way she’d joke with me, how we’d talk about everything and nothing in that comfortable silence. Her absence felt louder now than it ever had before. I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

I opened my messages. I typed “Hey, you okay?” then deleted it. “Where are you?” then deleted that too. Instead, I sent, “I miss seeing you. Hope everything’s good.”

Nothing came back.

By the time school ended, I felt like a part of me had withered. The uncertainty gnawed at me. I didn’t even know what was happening. Was she just dealing with something private, or was there more to it than that?

Day Four

I stood there in front of her door, my hand still hovering above the knocker, the echo of the unanswered knocks ringing in my ears. The stillness of the moment gnawed at me, sending a chill down my spine. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I was beginning to think that maybe this wasn’t just a minor absence, something she’d brush off later. Maybe this was more than just her being tired or distracted.

I knocked again, this time with more force, as if the sound could somehow break through the silence, force something to happen. But all I heard was the distant hum of the neighborhood, a dog barking in the distance, the rustling of leaves in the wind.

Nothing.

My hand dropped to my side, frustration welling up in me. My heart raced with each unanswered knock, each second stretching into minutes that felt like hours. I could feel the heat of anxiety creeping up my chest, a pressure behind my ribs, but no answer came from inside. I wanted to shout, to demand that someone answer, but what would I even say? I didn’t even know what I was looking for, only that I couldn’t stand not knowing.

I stepped back, pressing my back against the cool metal of the fence, trying to catch my breath. Was I being too pushy? Should I have just let it go? But I couldn’t. I couldn't just walk away, not when I knew something was off. I needed to know she was okay.

My mind raced through the possibilities, none of them good. Was she even here? Had she left? Was she avoiding me on purpose? I shook my head, the thoughts spiraling faster. Why was this so complicated?

I turned back to the door and knocked once more, slower this time, my knuckles barely tapping against the wood. Silence. The kind of silence that spoke volumes. No footsteps. No voices. No movement.

I waited for a long time, as if somehow the longer I stood here, the more likely it was that something—anything—would happen. But nothing did. The house was still.

I swallowed hard. I knew that nothing was going to change. I couldn’t keep standing there, hoping for something that wasn’t coming. I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated, confused.

Should I just leave? Should I wait longer? My thoughts felt disjointed, scattered. I glanced back at the house, noticing the curtains slightly parted. Were her parents home? Where was she? Why didn’t anyone answer?

But the nagging fear was growing stronger. What if I was missing something? What if she was inside, not answering because she didn’t want to see anyone? What if she was going through something so deep, so painful, that she couldn’t even face anyone?

I stepped back from the door and turned, my mind still spinning. I needed to know, but I wasn’t sure how to get the answers I needed. I felt helpless, like a stranger in a place that used to feel familiar.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and for a split second, I thought it was her. But when I pulled it out, it was just another text from Sofia—she hadn’t heard from Valeria either. It was the same story, over and over. Everyone I asked just seemed to have the same clueless look on their faces. They didn’t know.

I took a deep breath, pressing my palm against my forehead as I stood there on her front porch. I felt like I was suffocating under the weight of my own worry. This wasn’t just a bad day anymore. This wasn’t just her being absent. Something had happened, and I had no idea how to fix it.

Reluctantly, I turned away from the door. The sound of my footsteps on the gravel was the only noise around me as I walked back to the street. The weight in my chest didn’t lighten, though. It grew heavier with every step. The uncertainty of it all was suffocating.

As I walked away, I couldn’t shake the thought that I might have already missed my chance to make a difference. What if I was too late? What if she needed me, and I was too stupid to see it?

The worry didn’t go away. In fact, it only deepened, a cold knot twisting tighter as I looked back at the house one last time.

And still, no answer.

The Rumor

The morning started like any other, but something felt off in the air. As I walked through the halls, my mind was still on the empty seat across from me. Valeria’s absence had dragged on long enough.

I still hadn’t heard from her. No texts. No calls. Nothing. Just... silence.

Then, it happened.

I was standing at my locker, half-listening to the usual chatter around me, when I caught bits of a conversation between two guys passing by.

“Did you hear about Valeria?”

“Yeah, man. She’s in the hospital. Bad stuff. Some kind of breakdown, I think. Heard she went totally off the rails.”

“Hospital? What happened?”

“I dunno. Just heard she’s been there for days. They said she couldn’t handle it anymore—something about not eating, not sleeping. I think her parents checked her in.”

“Jesus, that’s rough. Poor girl.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I didn’t even know what to do with the information. I stood frozen, feeling the world around me fall silent. It didn’t make sense. Valeria in the hospital? It didn’t fit the girl I knew. But then again, nothing about the last few days had made sense.

My hands clenched into fists at my sides, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. The rumor kept echoing in my mind, spinning like a broken record.

I had to know if it was true.

I immediately shot a glance toward her friends in the hallway, but they weren’t there, not where they usually were. I couldn’t ask them now. I had to go straight to her house. It didn’t matter if I looked like a freak. I couldn’t wait anymore.

But the bell rang, and everyone filed into class, and I was left standing there, the heavy weight of those words pressing down on me.

Hospital.

I barely heard anything the rest of the day. Just... hospital. The thought wouldn’t leave my head.

All I could think about was getting to her—getting the truth, or whatever it was, from her myself.

The Breaking Point
The sun had just started to dip behind the trees as I arrived at Valeria’s house. The air was cooler now, the kind of crisp chill that made me tug at my jacket sleeve as I approached the front door. My heart was pounding in my chest, and a sense of urgency settled over me. I couldn’t shake the fear gnawing at me—fear that something had gone horribly wrong.

I knocked on the door, the sound echoing in the quiet of the neighborhood. My palms were sweaty, but I wiped them on my jeans. No answer. I knocked again, this time a little louder.

Still nothing.

I stood there, my knuckles barely touching the door. I knew I was close to breaking something. Or maybe she was. Or maybe it was all of us, teetering on the edge of something we couldn’t control anymore. But I had to knock. I had to.

It took me three knocks before I heard the footsteps from inside. And then the door creaked open, but it wasn’t Valeria. It was her dad. His tired eyes met mine, and I felt something heavy settle in my stomach.

“Lucanus?” he asked, his voice tight, like I wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Is Valeria home?” My words came out before I could stop them, and they sounded hollow, desperate. “I... I haven’t heard from her. She hasn’t been at school. She’s not answering my texts. I—what’s going on?”

Her dad looked over his shoulder toward the inside of the house. “She’s not doing well, Lucanus. She’s been going through something,” he said, his voice low, his eyes avoiding mine. “We’ve been trying to get her help, but... she’s not seeing anyone right now.”

I felt a sickening pit grow in my chest. "Is she okay? Where is she?"

“She’s... in her room,” her dad said, his voice thick with something I couldn’t place. “She’s not the same. She’s been... struggling with depression, and it’s been bad. For a while now.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Depression. I wanted to ask more. I wanted to scream. To demand to know what happened to the girl who could always make me smile, who was always so sure of herself. But instead, I swallowed hard.

“Can I... see her? Can I talk to her?”

Her dad hesitated, glancing back inside again. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now. You—”

But before he could finish, I heard her voice, sharp and cutting, from the hallway.

“No,” she said flatly, “no, I’m not doing this. I’m not talking to anyone.”

Valeria stood there, her figure framed in the doorway, her eyes bloodshot and distant. She was a different person now. She wasn’t the girl I knew.

“Valeria,” I said, taking a step toward her, trying to reach her, but she recoiled, almost like I had slapped her. The words I had rehearsed all week—everything I thought I’d say to help her—stuck in my throat.

“What are you doing here?” she spat. “Why can’t you just leave me alone? You’re not my therapist. You’re not my friend. You don’t get it!”

Her voice cracked. It was a sound I’d never heard before—a sound that shook me to my core.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay!” I shot back, my voice cracking too, the frustration finally boiling over. “You haven’t been in school, you haven’t answered anything, Valeria—what’s going on?”

She let out a bitter laugh, one that sounded more like a sob. “What’s going on? What’s going on is that I’m trying to deal with my life! And you’re just—” She waved her hand in the air, frustration clouding her face. “I don’t need you here, Lucanus. I don’t need anyone.”

Her mom stepped forward, her face pale, but the sadness in her eyes was too much to ignore. She placed a hand on Valeria’s shoulder, but Valeria shook it off, her voice turning venomous.

“You let him in? You let him see me like this?!” she screamed at her parents, her face twisted with fury. Her hands were shaking as she balled them into fists. “Why can’t you just let me be? Let me deal with this on my own. You always do this!”

I froze, the air around me heavy, suffocating. I wanted to speak, to make her understand, but I couldn’t find the words. I was paralyzed.

“Valeria, please,” her dad tried again, his voice tired and pleading. “We’re just trying to help you.”

“I don’t need help!” She snapped, her eyes wild. “I didn’t ask for any of this! I don’t need anyone ‘helping’ me!” Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she just stood there, glaring at everyone in the room. The anger was there, but so was something else. Hurt. Deep, crippling hurt.

“I—I just wanted to be there for you,” I finally said, my voice quieter now. “I want to help you.”

She shook her head slowly, as if everything I said was the wrong thing. “You don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like,” she muttered under her breath, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m not the person you think I am.”

The sound of her voice breaking sent a jolt of panic through me, and I wanted to rush forward. I wanted to do something—anything—to stop her from shutting down completely. But as I stepped closer, she held up a hand, her eyes burning with that mix of anger and pain.

“Just go,” she whispered, barely audible. “Please. Just go.”

I stood frozen, watching her back away, her chest heaving with every shaky breath. And then, as if the weight of it all was too much, she turned, disappearing into the hallway, slamming her bedroom door behind her with enough force to rattle the windows.

The sound echoed in my ears, louder than any words could have been.

The silence that followed was deafening. Her mom’s face was crumpled with sorrow, and her dad just stood there, too exhausted to speak.

I wanted to say something. Anything. But nothing came.

I felt it then—like I was a stranger, an outsider. Like all the effort, all the time I’d spent trying to be there for her, had been for nothing. I was standing in front of her house, in front of her parents, with no idea how to fix it. No idea how to make her look at me like she used to.

Nothing.

Days had passed since the argument at Valeria’s house, and with each one, the silence grew heavier. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Wondering if I’d pushed her too hard. Wondering if I had done something wrong. The last time I saw her, she was shutting me out. It felt like I was standing at the edge of something I couldn’t fix, no matter how hard I tried.

The days felt endless—school wasn’t the same anymore. Every class, every hallway, felt quieter without her. I’d sit in history, glancing at the empty seat across from me, hoping for her to show up, to just walk in like everything was fine again. But she didn’t. And every time that bell rang, signaling the end of another day, I’d be left wondering what the hell was happening with her.

It was just another morning, another set of hours passing in a haze of restless thoughts, when I overheard something that stopped me dead in my tracks.

I was standing by my locker, gathering the last of my books for the day, when I caught fragments of a conversation between two girls passing by, their voices low, just loud enough for me to hear.

“You heard about Valeria, right?” one of them said, her voice almost too quiet to catch.

I froze. The name felt like a punch to the gut. My stomach twisted.

“What do you mean? What happened to her?” the other girl asked, her voice laced with concern.

“She’s in the hospital,” the first girl replied, glancing around as if she were afraid someone might overhear. “Bad. She… she tried to—” The girl paused, lowering her voice even more, but I could hear the rest. “She tried to end it. They found her too late. She’s in critical condition.”

The words didn’t make sense at first. They hit me like a slap to the face, but they didn’t sink in right away. I couldn’t breathe. I stood there, unable to move, feeling my body go cold, my hands slowly trembling at my sides.

Hospital. Critical condition. End it.

My head buzzed with confusion. I was sure I’d heard wrong, but the words played over and over again in my mind, each time making less sense, each time sinking deeper into the pit in my stomach.

What did they mean? How could this be happening?

I stood there for a second longer, unable to move. The hallway was alive with chatter, kids rushing between classes, but it all felt so far away, so distant. All I could hear was that last sentence, echoing in my mind: She tried to end it.

I had to see her. I couldn’t stay here, not when I had no idea what was going on, not when I didn’t know if she was even alive.

I immediately turned on my heels and started walking. My legs felt heavy, like I was carrying a weight I couldn’t shake. The world around me didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting to her.

The bell rang, signaling the start of my next class, but I didn’t care. I walked straight out of the school building, ignoring the stares from the few kids lingering outside. I didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down. All I could think about was Valeria—about the girl who had been slipping away for weeks, and how I hadn’t been there to stop it.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers shaky as I searched for the address of her house. Her number was in my contacts, but I couldn’t bring myself to dial it. Not when I had no idea what I was walking into. What if she wasn’t even home? What if she didn’t want to see me?

But I had to try. I had to know if she was okay.

By the time I reached the hospital, the knot in my stomach had tightened to the point where I could barely breathe. I walked up to the nurse’s desk, my hands shaking.

“I’m looking for Valeria Mott,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

The nurse looked up, briefly scanning her clipboard before pointing down the hall. “Room 451,” she said, her voice quiet, almost too soft, like she was trying to make this as easy as possible.

I didn’t say anything else. I just nodded and turned to make my way down the corridor, each step feeling heavier than the last. The hospital smelled of antiseptic and faint bleach, but it didn’t matter. My heart was thumping so loud in my chest that I could hardly hear anything else.

When I reached the room, I saw Valeria’s parents standing outside, looking as worn and broken as I’d ever seen them. Her dad’s face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed, and her mom was wringing her hands nervously, as if she didn’t know how to hold herself together.

For a moment, no one said anything. The space between us felt wide and awkward, as if no one knew how to bridge the gap that had grown between us over the last few days.

Her dad was the first to speak. “Lucanus,” he said, his voice quiet but tired. “You didn’t— I didn’t expect you to be here.”

I swallowed hard, trying to steady myself. “How is she?” I asked, the words coming out raw and desperate.

“She’s... she’s in there,” her dad said, glancing at the door. His voice cracked. “But it’s not good, Lucanus. She’s been through something... something we couldn’t stop.”

I felt my stomach drop. “What happened?” I asked, suddenly afraid of what he might say.

His face twisted with pain. “She... tried to take her own life. We found her just in time, but she’s in critical condition now.”

The world seemed to slow, and everything else blurred around me. I didn’t even register her mom’s soft sobs, or the nurse who had walked by, her eyes averted. All I could hear were those words—critical condition—playing over and over in my head, like an echo that wouldn’t stop.

“I need to see her,” I said, the words coming out before I could stop them.

Her dad didn’t say anything for a moment. He just nodded, his face filled with a deep kind of sorrow that told me everything I needed to know.

I opened the door to Valeria’s room, and my breath caught. She was lying in bed, hooked up to machines, her face pale and unrecognizable. She was unconscious, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, like she was barely hanging on.

Her parents were sitting next to her, not saying a word, just watching her like they were waiting for something that wasn’t coming.

I walked closer to the bed, my feet heavy on the floor. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there for a long time, feeling the weight of the situation crash over me like a tidal wave.

Her mom glanced up at me, her face weary. “She hasn’t spoken much,” she whispered. “We... we don’t know if she’ll wake up.”

I nodded, my throat tight. The words felt like they were stuck, buried under the weight of everything I had been feeling.

I wanted to reach out to her. I wanted to hold her hand and tell her that everything was going to be okay. But I couldn’t. She was so far away from me, so distant, and I knew I hadn’t been there when she needed me most.

I just stood there, unsure of what to do next, and the silence in the room felt like it was closing in on me, suffocating me.

I should’ve seen it.

Looking back, I can’t believe I didn’t. The signs were there—subtle, maybe, but there.

A few weeks ago, Valeria sent me a text late at night. It wasn’t like her. She wasn’t the type to stay up texting for no reason. I remember it clearly, word for word:

"Do you ever feel like you're drowning?"

At the time, I thought it was just another passing thought, another late-night rambling message she sometimes sent when she couldn’t sleep. I stared at it for a long time, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, trying to think of something to say. I remember feeling a slight unease, a quiet nagging feeling in my chest—but I didn’t take it seriously.

I thought she was venting. Maybe about school, maybe about her parents, maybe just about life in general.

I had no idea she meant it.

I responded with something stupid.

"Rough day?"

She replied almost instantly.

"Yeah. Never mind."

I let it go. I didn’t ask. I didn’t push. I didn’t check in the next day.

Now I can’t stop thinking about it.

I keep pulling out my phone, scrolling up to that message, reading it over and over as if the words will somehow change. As if maybe, this time, she’ll say something different. As if maybe, this time, I’ll say something different.

Something that would’ve made her stop.

It’s been days since I first saw her in that hospital bed.

Days since I walked into that sterile, white-walled room, the steady beep of machines filling the silence, my stomach twisting at the sight of her lying there—so pale, so still, tubes and wires attached to her like something out of a nightmare.

Days since I stood there, frozen, watching her chest rise and fall in slow, mechanical motions, knowing that if it weren’t for the machines, she wouldn’t be breathing at all.

Days since I walked out of that room, her parents barely acknowledging my presence, too lost in their own grief to care that I was there.

I haven’t gone back since.

Not because I don’t want to—because I do.

I want to sit beside her and talk to her, even if she can’t hear me. I want to tell her I’m sorry. That I should’ve been there. That I should’ve seen the signs.

But every time I think about stepping into that hospital again, I freeze.

I keep telling myself I’m giving her family space. That it’s not my place. That she doesn’t need me there.

But that’s another lie.

The truth is, I’m afraid.

I keep replaying that night in my head. The last time we spoke.

"Why are you shutting me out?" I had asked her, my voice sharp, frustrated.

"I’m not," she had said, barely meeting my eyes.

"♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥, Val. You haven’t been yourself for weeks. Talk to me."

"I’m just tired."

"Then tell me what’s wrong!"

She had looked at me then, something heavy behind her eyes. She opened her mouth, then closed it, like she was about to say something—something real, something honest—but stopped herself at the last second.

"It’s nothing, Luc. I’m fine."

I had exhaled, shaking my head.

"You always say that."

"Because it’s true."

I remember the way she had smiled—small, distant. It wasn’t real. It was the kind of smile you use when you want someone to stop asking questions.

I should’ve pushed harder.

I should’ve stayed.

But instead, I had sighed, rubbed a hand over my face, and said, "Fine. If you don’t want to talk, I won’t force you."

Then I turned and walked away.

And she let me.

She didn’t call after me. She didn’t try to stop me.

Maybe that was the moment I should’ve known.

I haven’t been sleeping much.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind looping through everything I should have done differently.

I close my eyes, and I see her—the way she was before all this. The way she looked at me when we first met, that little smirk she used to give me when she thought she was smarter than me.

And then I see her in the hospital bed.

A version of her that shouldn’t exist.

After school, I find myself at the art room.

I don’t even know why I walked here. I guess I just needed somewhere quiet, somewhere that still feels like her.

It smells like paint and paper, just like it always does. The room is empty, the easels standing still, unfinished projects left behind on the tables.

I walk over to the back corner—the spot where we used to sit, where we first met. I run my fingers over the wooden desk, the one she used to rest her elbows on when she’d lean forward, critiquing my work.

"You have no sense of shading," she had teased once, nudging me with her elbow.

"Yeah, well, you have no sense of perspective," I had shot back.

She had laughed, shaking her head.

"Perspective is subjective, Luc."

I had rolled my eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but the truth was, I liked it when she talked like that. When she got lost in her own little world of thoughts and theories and the way she saw things.

I pull out my phone and scroll to our old messages. I find one from months ago.

"I think people forget how much art says about a person."

I had asked her what she meant.

"I mean, people look at a drawing and just see colors and lines. But if you really pay attention, you see the person who made it. You see their thoughts, their emotions, their fears. Art is just a way to say things we don’t know how to say out loud."

I wonder what she was trying to say back then.

I wonder what she wanted me to see.

My chest tightens.

I lower my head onto the desk and close my eyes, trying to remember the last time I heard her laugh.

"Luc, do you ever think about the future?" she had asked me once, out of nowhere, as we sat here after school, just the two of us.

"Not really," I had shrugged.

"Why not?"

"I don’t know. I guess I don’t see the point in planning too far ahead."

She had hummed, thoughtful.

"I think about it a lot," she had admitted. "Where we’ll be in a few years. If we’ll still be friends. If we’ll even remember sitting here, talking about stupid things."

"Of course, we’ll remember," I had told her, nudging her with my knee.

"Yeah?" she had smiled, but there had been something in her eyes—something sad, something uncertain.

I never asked her what she was thinking in that moment.

And now, I never will.

For the first time since I heard the news, I feel something sting at the edges of my eyes.

I never cry.

But sitting here, in this empty room, where she should be but isn’t—I feel it.

And I let it come.

Because if she gets another chance—if we both do—I won’t waste it.

I don’t care if she pushes me away.

I don’t care if she never wants to see me again.

I don’t care if she hates me.

She needs to know she’s not alone.

Because no one should ever feel that alone.

Not her.

Not ever.

I don’t believe in miracles.

I never have.

Miracles are just coincidences people dress up with meaning to make themselves feel better. At least, that’s what I used to think.

But sometimes, just sometimes, life proves me wrong.

The first miracle happened on my seventeen birthday.

I didn’t want to celebrate it. Didn’t see the point. But my family insisted—cake, candles, the whole thing. They told me to make a wish.

I only had one.

I wished for her.

I wished that Valeria would wake up. That she’d open her eyes, look at me, and I’d finally get the chance to tell her how ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ sorry I was.

That night, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I did something I hadn’t done in months.

I went to see her.

I stopped at a small shop on the way to the hospital. The kind that sells cheap greeting cards and overpriced flowers. I stared at the selection for too long, not even sure why I was bothering. Flowers felt stupid. Useless. She wouldn’t even see them. But my hands moved on their own, grabbing a small bouquet of white lilies. I paid for them without thinking.

The hospital was quiet when I got there. Visiting hours were almost over, but no one stopped me. I knew the way by heart. Knew the turns, the hallways, the smell of disinfectant that clung to everything.

But standing outside her door, I hesitated.

I didn’t know why. Maybe I was afraid of what I’d see. Maybe I was afraid nothing would have changed. Maybe I just didn’t want to face the fact that this was the closest I’d been to her in months, and she wouldn’t even know I was there.

I forced myself to go in.

The room was dimly lit, the machines beside her bed humming in a quiet, steady rhythm. The flowers in the vase from her parents were wilting. I set mine next to them, not sure why I even bothered.

Then I looked at her.

God.

She looked so… small.

Valeria was always full of life—loud, stubborn, always moving, always talking. The girl in the bed wasn’t her. She was too still, too pale. Her freckles stood out even more against her skin, her lips dry and cracked. There were IVs in her arms, a heart monitor beeping steadily beside her. The sound was soft but constant, like a reminder that she was still here.

I sat down beside her, my hands clasped between my knees, staring at the floor. I didn’t know what to say.

What do you say to someone who might never hear you?

After a while, I closed my eyes and muttered a prayer under my breath.

I don’t even know why.

I hadn’t prayed in years. Didn’t think I believed in it anymore. But I did it anyway.

"Please," I whispered. "Just let her wake up. Let me fix this."

Nothing happened. Of course, nothing happened.

I sighed, rubbing a hand down my face, trying to ignore the tightness in my throat.

Then, on impulse, I reached forward and took her hand.

Her fingers were warm. Too warm. For some reason, I expected them to be cold.

My throat closed up.

"I miss you," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "I miss you so much, Val."

The words tumbled out before I could stop them. Everything I had been holding back for months, everything I was too much of a coward to say before.

"I should’ve been there. I should’ve seen it. I should’ve—" I broke off, swallowing the lump in my throat. My grip on her hand tightened. "I’m so ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ sorry."

I exhaled shakily, leaning forward, pressing my forehead against our joined hands. My eyes burned.

"And I—" My voice caught. I took a breath, then another, forcing the words out before I could stop myself.

"I love you, Val."

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. Just the quiet truth.

"I love you," I whispered again, my voice raw. "I always have. And if you wake up, if you come back to me, I swear to God, I won’t waste another second not telling you."

Silence.

Just the sound of the heart monitor, the steady hum of the machines.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

"I just need one more chance," I murmured. "Just one more."

A sound.

A soft, barely-there inhale.

I thought I imagined it.

Then—

"Luc?"

It was hoarse. Weak. But real.

I froze.

My whole body locked up, my heart slamming against my ribs. For a second, I thought my brain was playing tricks on me. That I wanted it so badly I was hearing things.

But then I turned.

Her eyes were open.

Not fully. Just barely. But enough.

I shot up so fast I knocked over a tray on the bedside table, sending metal instruments clattering to the floor. My vision blurred, my hands shaking as I grabbed the edge of the bed to steady myself.

"Val?" My voice cracked. "Oh my god."

She blinked sluggishly, unfocused, her breathing uneven. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

And then—

She looked at me.

And she smiled.

It was small, barely there, but it was real.

That was it. That was all it took.

The tightness in my chest finally snapped, and I broke. A sob ripped out of me before I could stop it. My knees almost gave out, my body shaking as I pressed a hand over my mouth.

"You’re—" I choked on the words, shaking my head. "You’re awake."

She frowned slightly, her forehead creasing, like she was trying to piece things together. Her eyes flickered to me, to the room, to the machines around her. Then back to me.

"Where…?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

"You’re in the hospital," I told her, wiping at my face uselessly. "You—God, Val, you scared the ♥♥♥♥ out of me."

Her lips twitched again, like she wanted to laugh but was too exhausted to manage it. Then her expression shifted. Guilt.

"I’m sorry," she murmured.

I stared at her, feeling like I’d just been punched in the gut.

"Don’t," I said immediately. My voice was raw. "Don’t you dare apologize to me."

She swallowed, her throat working like it hurt.

"I yelled at you," she rasped. "I pushed you away. I didn’t want you to—" She stopped, her breath shuddering. "I didn’t want you to worry."

I let out a broken laugh, shaking my head. "Val, I always worry about you."

Her gaze met mine. There was something in her expression—something fragile, something vulnerable.

"You almost weren’t here," I whispered, my fingers tightening around hers. My voice cracked again. "You almost—" I couldn’t finish the sentence.

Her eyes glistened. She squeezed my hand, her grip weak but there.

"But I am," she whispered back.

A sob broke out of me before I could stop it. I leaned forward, pressing my forehead against our joined hands, my shoulders shaking.

"You’re here," I echoed, my voice barely audible.

Her fingers curled slightly around mine. “I heard you,” she whispered.

I blinked, confused. “What?”

“In the hospital,” she said softly. “When you were talking to me… when you held my hand before.” Her gaze found mine, something unreadable in her expression. “You said… you loved me.”

My breath hitched.

My grip on her hand tightened just slightly. I couldn’t look away. “Yeah,” I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I did.”

She swallowed, searching my face like she was trying to figure out if I meant it.

I did.

I always had.

A knock at the door made us both jump. A nurse peeked in. “She’s awake?”

I let out a shaky breath and nodded, stepping back as doctors and nurses flooded the room. I gave Valeria’s hand one last squeeze before letting go.

She didn’t stop me. But before I turned to leave, she whispered—

“I love you too.”

That night, I walked home under a sky full of stars. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe—

And then, for the first time in months, I let myself believe in miracles.

I don’t know what I expected when I walked into her hospital room again.

Maybe I thought it would feel different now that she was awake—less heavy, less suffocating. But it doesn’t.

If anything, it feels even heavier.

The air still carries that sterile scent of disinfectant and something artificial, but now, there’s something else—a faint trace of her. Her shampoo, maybe, or just the way her presence lingers in a space. The machines still hum softly in the background, the beeping steady and rhythmic, reminding me she’s alive. That should bring me relief, but instead, it just makes my chest feel tighter.

She’s sitting up this time. Not fully, but enough that she looks like herself again. There’s more color in her cheeks, and her hair is a little messier, like she’s been running her fingers through it.

And when she sees me—her eyes light up.

Like she wasn’t expecting me but is happy that I’m here.

And then she smiles.

It’s small. Weak. But it’s real.

It almost knocks the air out of my lungs.

“Hey,” I manage, my voice rougher than I intended.

She tilts her head slightly. “Hey.” Her voice is hoarse, tired, but warm.

I step further into the room, setting the flowers I brought down on the small table beside her bed. She glances at them, then back at me.

“You brought me flowers?” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but it’s soft, hesitant, like she isn’t sure if she’s allowed to joke about something so normal after everything.

I clear my throat. “Yeah. You like lilies, right?”

She nods slowly, staring at them for a moment. “I do.”

I hesitate before pulling the chair closer to her bed and sitting down. For a second, neither of us says anything. The silence isn’t tense, exactly, but it isn’t comfortable either.

I don’t know where to start.

I don’t even know if she wants me here.

“How are you feeling?” I finally ask.

Valeria exhales softly, looking down at her hands. “Tired,” she admits. “Like… everything’s too much and not enough at the same time.”

I nod, because I don’t know what else to do.

Another pause.

Then, quietly, she asks, “Did you think I wouldn’t wake up?”

The question hits me like a punch to the gut. I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet her gaze.

“I didn’t know,” I say honestly. “I wanted to believe you would. But I—” My voice catches, and I look away. “I didn’t know if I’d ever get to talk to you again.”

She studies me for a long moment, something unreadable in her expression. Then, so softly I almost don’t hear it, she says, “I’m sorry.”

I blink. “What?”

She grips the blanket draped over her lap, staring down at it. “I—” Her voice wavers. “I shouldn’t have shut you out like that. I shouldn’t have—” She swallows hard. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I just… I didn’t want to worry you.”

My jaw tightens. “You think not telling me was better?” My voice cracks, but I can’t stop. “You think I wouldn’t have worried about you anyway? You think I didn’t—” I break off, dragging a hand down my face. “I should have seen it. I should have known. You sent me that text, and I just—I brushed it off. I thought you just needed space, and I left you alone. And then—” My throat closes up. “I almost lost you.”

She flinches. I immediately regret my tone.

“I thought…” she whispers, her hands gripping the sheets. “I thought you were mad at me.”

I let out a sharp breath. “I was mad,” I admit. “I was ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ terrified. But I was never mad at you for… for that.” My voice softens. “I was mad at myself.”

Her fingers tighten around the blanket, her shoulders trembling slightly. “Luc… I never wanted you to feel like that.”

I shake my head. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Val.”

Her lips press together. “I did,” she says after a long pause. “I pushed you away. I made you think I didn’t want you around, but I did. I just—I didn’t know how to ask for help.”

I exhale slowly, gripping the edge of the chair. “You don’t have to explain. Not now.”

She hesitates before nodding. “Okay.”

Silence again. But this time, it feels different. Not as heavy. Not as sharp.

I reach into my bag and pull out something small, worn, familiar.

Her sketchbook.

She stares at it for a long moment, her fingers twitching slightly at her side, like she isn’t sure she has the strength to take it.

“I—” I clear my throat. “I kept it for you. Thought you might want it back.”

She doesn’t move at first, just blinks down at it like she’s looking at a piece of herself she forgot existed. Then, slowly, she reaches out. Her hands are unsteady, weak from months of not using them, so I help her. I place the sketchbook gently in her lap, our fingers brushing.

She exhales, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“I thought I lost this,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. She runs a thumb over the cover, tracing the edges like she’s remembering every line, every worn-out page.

I watch her carefully. “I looked through it,” I admit quietly. “Not all of it. Just a few pages.”

She glances up at me, but there’s no anger in her eyes. Just… something else.

“I—” She flips through the pages, stopping on a half-finished drawing—one I recognize instantly.

It’s me.

My throat tightens. “I love it.”

She swallows hard. “I— I don’t even remember drawing this.”

I do.

She had been sitting across from me, lost in her own world, her pencil never stopping. I remember teasing her about it, saying she could’ve at least chosen a better subject.

I let out a shaky breath.

“I missed you,” she whispers suddenly.

I close my eyes for half a second. When I open them, she’s looking at me—really looking at me.

“I missed you too.”

I glance at our hands—her fingers still barely touching mine. I should move away. I should let her rest. But I don’t. Instead, I tighten my grip, just slightly, like I’m afraid she’ll disappear if I let go.

“Before you woke up,” I say, voice barely above a whisper, “I—I said something. I don’t know if you heard me, but I—” I swallow, heart hammering against my ribs. “I love you.”

Her breath catches.

I can’t look at her. My throat is too tight, my hands shaking. “I should have told you sooner. I should have—”

“Luc.”

I finally meet her eyes.

She looks at me—really looks at me—and for the first time in what feels like forever, she smiles.

It’s small, barely there, but it’s real.

And just like that, the crushing weight on my chest lifts, even if only slightly.

“Can you stay?” she asks, voice quiet, unsure.

I nod. “Yeah,” I say, squeezing her hand. “I’ll stay.”

And for the first time in months, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

It had been months since Valeria was discharged from the hospital. Months of slow healing, of careful steps forward. Therapy had changed her—not in a way that made her a stranger, but in a way that made her… different. Lighter in some ways. Heavier in others.

We still saw each other. Every week, after therapy, she’d find me, and we’d talk. Sometimes for hours. Sometimes barely at all. Some days, she was like she’d always been—sharp, witty, her presence like a force of nature. Other days, she was quieter, the weight of everything pressing down on her shoulders. On those days, we sat in silence, and I never pushed her to speak. I just stayed.

I thought we had time.

Until that day.

Until That Day
I didn’t want to believe it.

Even when I overheard people whispering about it in the hallways. Even when I saw the way she seemed different—a little more distant, a little more like she was already halfway gone. Even when I caught glimpses of her staring at nothing in class, lost in thought, like she was somewhere else entirely.

I told myself it wasn’t true. That maybe it was just a rumor. That maybe—maybe—she would tell me if it were real.

But then she found me at my locker.

She looked hesitant, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, gripping the strap of her bag like it was the only thing keeping her steady. The second she saw me, something flickered across her face—relief, maybe, or regret—but it was gone too fast for me to be sure.

“Luc,” she started, voice soft.

I closed my locker a little too hard. “What?”

She flinched slightly but held her ground. “Can we talk?”

I exhaled through my nose, forcing myself to unclench my jaw. “Yeah. Fine.”

We walked in silence until we found an empty classroom. It was late, and most of the students had already gone home. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, the air thick with the scent of old books and something vaguely metallic.

She turned to face me, gripping her bag tighter. “I—” She hesitated, glancing down at her shoes before taking a breath. “I’m leaving.”

The words didn’t register at first.

“…What?”

She swallowed hard. “My family’s moving back to Milan. Today.”

Everything inside me went still.

“Today,” I repeated, voice hollow.

She nodded. “I wanted to tell you sooner, I just—”

“When were you gonna tell me, Val?” I snapped. “The night before you left? After you were already gone?”

Her eyes widened slightly. “No, I—”

“You knew, didn’t you?” I stepped back, shaking my head. “You knew for weeks, and you didn’t say a damn thing.”

She let out a shaky breath. “Luc, please. It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” My voice came out harsher than I intended, but I didn’t care. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like you’re running away.”

Her shoulders tensed. “I need this.”

“You need this?” I laughed, but it was bitter, sharp. “What about me? Did you ever stop to think about what this would do to me?”

“Of course I did!” she snapped, eyes glistening. “But what do you want me to say, Luc? That I don’t want to go? That I want to stay? Because that doesn’t change anything! My family is leaving, and I don’t have a choice.”

I stared at her, my breath coming too fast. “When are you coming back?”

Silence.

That ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ pause.

“…Probably never, I guess.”

I felt the air get knocked out of me.

I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my hair. “Fine,” I said, voice tight. “You do whatever you want.”

And then I walked out.

She didn’t stop me.

I told myself I wouldn’t go to her house.

That if she wanted to leave, I wouldn’t chase after her. That she made her choice, and I had to live with it.

But as the hours passed, anger turned into something else—something worse.

Regret.

What if those were the last words I ever said to her?

So I went.

By the time I got there, most of the packing was already done.

Boxes were stacked near the front door. Valeria’s father was loading the last of them into the trunk, his face drawn with exhaustion.

But Valeria—she stood a little off to the side, arms wrapped around herself, staring at the house. She must have felt me watching her because, when she turned and saw me, her eyes lit up—just for a second—before something more guarded took its place.

Still, she smiled. A small, hesitant thing.

I swallowed, stepping forward. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

The word felt too small for everything I wanted to say.

She shifted on her feet. “I wasn’t sure if I’d see you again before I left.”

“Yeah. Well.” I exhaled, rubbing the back of my neck. “I was an ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ earlier.”

She let out a short, breathy laugh. “Yeah. You were.”

I huffed out something that was almost a laugh. Then I looked at her—really looked at her. “I’m sorry.”

She blinked.

I shook my head. “I just… I wasn’t ready to hear it. That you were leaving. That you—” My throat tightened. “That you weren’t coming back.”

Her face softened. “Luc…”

I held up a hand, stopping her. “I know, okay? I know you need this. And I get it. I just—” I exhaled, forcing a smile that felt shaky at best. “It’s gonna suck without you.”

Her eyes glistened slightly, but she didn’t look away. “I know.”

For a long moment, we just stood there.

Then, slowly, she reached into her bag and pulled something out. She hesitated for half a second before pressing it into my hands.

I looked down. My chest ached.

Her sketchbook.

I looked up at her. “Val, I—”

“I want you to have it.” Her voice was quiet. “So you don’t forget me.”

I swallowed hard, flipping through the pages. Some were old sketches—things I recognized from before. But some were new. Some were me.

“You finished it.” My voice cracked slightly.

She smiled. “Of course I did.”

Something in my chest clenched.

She stepped closer, and before I could react, she leaned up on her toes and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek.

I froze.

When she pulled back, there was something unreadable in her expression. But before I could figure it out, her dad called her name.

She let out a small, shaky breath. “I should go.”

I nodded, gripping the sketchbook tighter. “Yeah.”

She hesitated, one last time. Then she smiled—soft, a little sad—and stepped away.

I watched as she climbed into the car. As the door shut behind her. As the engine rumbled to life.

I didn’t move. Not even when the car disappeared down the street.

I just stood there, gripping her sketchbook like it was the only thing keeping me grounded.

Until that day… that was the last time I ever saw her.

It’s been months since Valeria left.

Long enough that people stopped asking if I’d heard from her. Long enough that I should have moved on.

But I haven’t.

Everything reminds me of her.

The arcade still glows with its neon buzz at the corner of the street, like a memory refusing to fade. I walk past it, feeling the pull but never stepping inside. What’s the point? She’s not there to nudge me in the ribs, grinning as she destroys me at Street Fighter.

School feels emptier. I still expect to hear her laugh echo down the hallways or see her sprawled across a table, sketching in her notebook. But her seat is always empty.

At home, my family notices.

Mom asks if I’m okay. Dad watches me like he’s waiting for something—maybe waiting for me to snap out of it.

“I’m fine,” I tell them.

It’s a lie.

The Silence at Home
Dinner is quiet. It has been for weeks.

Mom sets a plate in front of me—pasta, my favorite. But I barely touch it.

She exchanges a glance with Dad before speaking. “Lucanus, you haven’t been yourself lately.”

“I’m fine,” I say, stabbing at my food with my fork.

Dad leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “You sure about that?”

I don’t answer.

Mom exhales softly, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sweetheart, we just want to help.”

I force a bite down, barely tasting it. “I don’t need help. I just… I just need time.”

Dad watches me for a moment before setting his fork down. Clink. The sound makes my shoulders tense.

“You’ve been doing a lot of nothing lately,” he says, voice even but firm.

I bristle at that. “I go to school. I do my work.”

“That’s not what I mean.” His gaze sharpens. “You used to train every day. You used to push yourself. Now you just go through the motions.”

I drop my fork onto my plate, appetite gone. “What do you want me to do? Pretend everything’s fine?”

“No,” he says. “I want you to do something with your life.”

The words hit harder than I expect.

I push back from the table, chair scraping against the floor. “I have homework,” I mutter before walking out.

The Talk with My Father
I didn’t expect my father to follow me outside. Usually, when I left the dinner table in a foul mood, he let me be. But tonight was different.

I was sitting on the back steps, picking at the wood grain with my fingernail, staring at the darkened sky. The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and the distant hum of the neighborhood settling in for the night. I heard the door creak open, followed by the slow, measured steps of my father’s boots.

He didn’t sit down right away. Instead, he stood there, hands in his pockets, looking up at the stars.

"You can tell yourself you’re fine," he said after a long silence, "but I know better. I’ve seen this before."

I kept my eyes on the horizon, jaw tight. “Yeah? When?”

He exhaled, stepping down to sit beside me, his elbows resting on his knees. He didn’t look at me when he answered. “In the mirror. A long time ago.”

I frowned, glancing at him. My father wasn’t the kind of man who talked about his past unless there was a lesson buried in it.

"What happened?" I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

He scratched at the stubble on his chin, staring out into the night. “There was someone I cared about once. Someone who meant a lot to me. And when she left… I thought the world was ending.” He gave a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “I stopped eating. Stopped talking. Stopped living, really. I told myself it didn’t matter, that I was fine. But I wasn’t.”

I swallowed, my fingers tightening into a fist against my knee. “What did you do?”

He looked at me then, his gaze steady. “I had two choices: stay stuck, or get up and do something about it.”

I scoffed, shaking my head. “And what? You’re saying I should just move on? Just forget her?”

"No," he said simply. "You don’t forget people like that. But you can’t live your life waiting for them to come back.”

His words landed heavier than I wanted them to.

We sat in silence for a while, the night stretching between us. Then, before he got up, he clapped a hand on my shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"She’s moving forward, Luc. What about you?”

And then he walked back inside, leaving me alone with a question I wasn’t ready to answer.

The Sketchbook
Later that night, I pulled out Valeria’s sketchbook.

I hadn’t looked at it in a while. Not because I didn’t want to—but because I was afraid of what it would do to me.

I ran my fingers over the worn cover before flipping it open. Page after page, her sketches stared back at me. Some unfinished, some with tiny notes scrawled in the corners.

Then I found the one of me.

It was the last drawing she made before she left. A simple pencil sketch, capturing me mid-laugh, like she had frozen a moment in time. My own face looked back at me, and for the first time, I wondered if she’d drawn it because she didn’t want to forget me either.

Something fluttered between the pages. A loose scrap of paper.

I almost didn’t open it.

But I did.

It was a short note, her handwriting a little messier than usual.

"I hope you find what you’re looking for."

That was it. No explanation. No goodbye. Just that.

I clenched my jaw, staring at the words until they blurred together.

Then, on the last blank page of the sketchbook, I pulled out a pen and wrote:

"I told myself I wouldn’t forget her. But maybe it’s not about holding on. Maybe it’s about figuring out who I am without her.

I don’t know where I’m going yet. But I can’t stay here forever.”

I stared at the words for a long time.

Then, finally, I closed the book.

The Knock at My Door
The knock came before sunrise.

Not a polite one. A firm, deliberate rap.

I groaned, burying my face deeper into the pillow. "Unless the house is on fire, go away."

The door creaked open.

"Get dressed."

I peeked one eye open. My dad stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

"Why?"

"Just get in the truck."

I sighed. He wasn’t asking. I sat up, rubbing my face.

"You know I have school, right?"

"You’ll survive."

"So… this is a punishment?"

"Not unless you make it one."

That didn’t make me feel any better.

Where the Hell Are We?
We drove in silence.

Past town. Past the outskirts. Past anywhere familiar.

The roads got narrower, the trees denser, the pavement cracked and faded. Finally, we pulled up to a rotting, half-collapsed house in the middle of nowhere.

The kind of place where you expect to find bodies in the basement.

I stared at it.

"You forgot to mention we’re starring in a horror movie," I muttered.

Dad killed the engine. "Let’s go."

"Let’s go where?"

"Inside."

I huffed. "You know I’m gonna be late for school, right?"

"You’ll live."

"Come on." I gestured at the wreckage. "Are you punishing me with manual labor? At least be original."

He ignored me, heading to the back of the truck.

"You know I’ve worked harder than you, right?" I said, crossing my arms.

Dad smirked. "Yeah, yeah. I know. You’re a badass, right?"

Then he tossed me a pair of protective glasses.

"Put these on."

"What?"

"Just put them on, Luc."

I hesitated, but something in his tone made me listen.

Breaking Point
Inside, the house was a graveyard of forgotten things.

Stripped walls. Collapsed furniture. A thick layer of dust, like time had just stopped.

Dad picked up a sledgehammer and rolled his shoulders.

Then, without a word, he swung hard.

The wall split open, plaster crumbling around the impact.

I stepped back. "Jesus, Dad."

He exhaled, resting the hammer on his shoulder.

"I know you’re angry," he said. "At us. At the world. Maybe at yourself a little. I don’t know. You’re not talking."

I stayed quiet.

"The truth is," he continued, "when I’m pissed, I don’t much like to talk either."

Then, he drove a crowbar straight through an old dresser. Wood splintered apart, shards flying.

"You know what I like to do?" he asked.

I already knew the answer.

"I like to break ♥♥♥♥."

He grabbed a baseball bat and held it out to me.

"Go ahead."

I hesitated.

"This isn’t some kind of therapy thing, is it?"

Dad snorted. "No. It’s just real simple. You’re pissed. So hit something."

I sighed and grabbed the bat.

"I want you to think about something that really pisses you off. You got it?"

I clenched my jaw.

"You sure?"

I thought about Valeria leaving.

I thought about the nights staring at my phone, waiting for a message that never came.

I thought about people asking if I was ‘okay’ like I was supposed to just get over it.

I exhaled. "Yeah."

Dad nodded. "Alright. Let’s see it. Bust that ♥♥♥♥ up."

I swung.

The bat tore through a wooden chair, sending pieces flying.

I grabbed the crowbar and drove it into an old dresser. The doors ripped off, falling limp at the hinges.

I turned to a glass table.

Dad nodded.

I lifted the bat and brought it down hard.

Glass scattered across the floor, a million shards catching the sunlight.

My breathing was ragged, my muscles burning.

Dad smirked.

"How’s that feel?"

I exhaled, staring at the wreckage.

"I don’t know."

"Yes, you do."

I clenched my jaw and turned to the drywall. I swung full force, punching through.

I exhaled.

"Okay." I swallowed. "It feels good."

Dad chuckled.

"Told you."

Then he tossed me a sledgehammer.

"Let’s really wreck this place."

Father & Son Destruction
For the next twenty minutes, we demolished everything in sight.

Before I swung again, Dad suddenly stopped me.

"Hold up."

He pulled something from his back pocket—a faded baseball cap, frayed at the edges.

"Put this on."

I frowned. "Why?"

"So you don’t get a chunk of drywall or glass lodged in your scalp."

"I’m fine—"

He jammed it onto my head anyway, tugging the brim down. "There. Now you won’t look like an idiot in the ER."

"Sure."

He just smirked.

I tugged the cap lower and picked up the sledgehammer again.

Then I swung hard—straight into an old cabinet.

The wood splintered, panels flying off in jagged chunks.

Dad grabbed a crowbar and went after an old fridge, ripping the door clean off its hinges.

"That fridge owes you money or something?" I asked, breathless.

"Nope. Just ugly."

We tore through the house. A dresser fell apart under my crowbar, paint cans burst open, old pipes snapped, sending a spray of rust-colored water across the floor.

We wrecked walls. We smashed tables.

We didn’t talk.

Just swing, destroy, breathe.

Sweat dripped down my back, my arms burning.

But for the first time in months, I didn’t feel stuck.

Dad exhaled, rolling his shoulders.

"Alright. That’s enough."

We stepped back, staring at the wreckage.

The house looked like it had been hit by a tornado with anger issues.

We were covered in dust. Hands bruised, muscles aching.

Dad stretched. "Damn, that felt good."

I actually laughed.

"Yeah. It really did."

The Grenade Incident
I thought we were done.

Then Dad walked back to the truck.

"What now?" I muttered, catching my breath.

He didn’t answer. Just rummaged around for something.

I heard metal clinking.

"Oh, come on—what the hell are you grabbing now?"

When he turned back, he was holding a grenade.

I stared.

"You have a grenade?"

"It’s not live," he said casually.

"Oh, okay. That makes it totally normal."

He ignored me, turning it over in his hands. "Figured I’d teach you about it. Since, you know… you wanna join the military someday."

Then—

The pin slipped loose.

For a second, we just stared at it.

Then—

"OH, ♥♥♥♥."

We ran.

BOOM.

The explosion ripped through the house, shaking the ground beneath us.

We hit the dirt.

Dad whistled. "Huh."

I turned my head. "You nearly killed us."

He grinned. "You’re welcome."

We stood there, catching our breath, taking in the destruction.

Dad wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, then turned to me.

"Feel better?"

I nodded, still gripping the sledgehammer. "Yeah… I think I do."

He clapped a hand on my shoulder. Solid. Steady.

"Good. Now, let's get the hell out of here before we break something important."

I let out a breath of laughter, shaking my head. For the first time in months, I actually felt lighter.

As we stepped outside, the air felt crisper, cleaner—like I could finally breathe again.

Dad tossed the crowbar into the back of the truck, then looked at me.

"Listen, Luc… you can’t hold all this ♥♥♥♥ in forever. It’s gonna eat you alive. You feel angry? Frustrated? You find a way to let it out. You don’t have to do it alone."

I met his gaze.

"Yeah. I got it."

He nodded, satisfied.

Then, after a beat of silence, he smirked.

"Also… you’re cleaning that sledgehammer when we get home."

I scoffed, rolling my eyes. "Of course I am."

I climbed into the truck, the weight in my chest just a little bit lighter than before.

And as we drove off, leaving the wreckage behind, I realized something.

I wasn’t okay yet.

But maybe—just maybe—I was finally moving forward.

My mom thought a change of scenery would help. Maybe she was right. Maybe she just didn’t know what else to do with me.

Either way, she booked a family trip to Rome. Ten days. Sightseeing, good food, trying to pretend we were a normal, happy family.

I wasn’t excited. I didn’t care about Rome. It didn’t matter how many ancient ruins or fancy cathedrals we saw. Valeria wasn’t there.

But I went anyway.

Rome was loud, crowded. Tourists packed the streets, cameras flashing, voices overlapping in a mix of Latin, English, and a dozen other languages. The air smelled like espresso, fresh bread, and car exhaust.

My mom led the way, guidebook in hand, rattling off facts she’d highlighted like a teacher prepping for a quiz. My dad walked beside her, quiet as always. Tiberius darted ahead, practically vibrating with excitement. He wanted to see everything, touch everything. He was still at that age where the world felt huge, like anything was possible.

I wished I could see it the way he did.

“Luc, did you know the Pantheon’s dome was the biggest in the world for, like, 1,300 years?” Tiberius asked, eyes wide as he took in the massive structure in front of us.

I shrugged. “Sounds like a long time.”

He gave me a look. “That’s all you’ve got?”

I smirked. “You’re the one getting excited over a roof.”

He groaned. “It’s not just a roof, dumbass.” Then he ran off to our parents.

I stayed back, hands shoved in my pockets, staring up at the Pantheon’s entrance. It was impressive, sure. Ancient. A piece of history. But all I could think about was how Valeria would’ve loved it—how she would’ve sketched the columns, taken notes on the architecture, maybe even made me pose in front of it just to mess with me.

I pulled my phone from my pocket. Her name was still pinned at the top of my messages. I hadn’t texted her in weeks. Hadn’t heard from her, either.

I thought about sending something.

Then I put my phone away.

The days blurred together. The Colosseum. The Trevi Fountain. The Vatican. I went where I was supposed to, nodded when I had to, sat through meals at restaurants where my parents ordered for the table, and Tiberius talked enough for both of us.

But I wasn’t really there.

Until my dad pulled me aside one afternoon.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward a side street.

I frowned. “We ditching Mom and Tiberius?”

“They’ll be fine,” he said. “I wanna show you something.”

I didn’t ask questions. Just followed.

He led me down narrow alleys, past old brick buildings and small cafés where locals sipped espresso. Eventually, we stopped outside a small, run-down garage. The sign above the door was faded, almost unreadable. My dad knocked once.

An older man answered, wiping grease from his hands. His face lit up when he saw my dad. “Marce!”

They spoke in rapid Latin, too fast for me to catch every word. Old friends, clearly. The man gestured us inside, and I hesitated before stepping through the door.

The place smelled like oil and metal. Tools covered the workbenches, and half-built machines sat in various states of disrepair. It reminded me of the mechanic shop I used to work at back home.

My dad walked over to a dusty motorcycle in the corner. He ran a hand over the seat like he was seeing something I couldn’t.

“This one?” he said. “We built it together when I was about your age.”

I blinked. “You never told me that.”

“You never asked.”

I stepped closer, running my fingers over the worn leather. “Does it still run?”

My dad smirked. “Probably not.” Then he looked at me. “But we could fix it.”

I frowned. “You want me to fix a motorcycle?”

“I want you to do something,” he said, voice steady. “You’ve been walking around like a ghost for months. It’s time to put your hands on something real.”

I didn’t answer right away. Just looked at the bike. At my dad.

Then I picked up a wrench.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was doing something that mattered.

Locked and Loaded
The next morning, my dad woke me up early. Too early.

“Get dressed,” he said.

I groaned, burying my face in my pillow. “For what?”

“You’ll see.”

That was all I got.

Tiberius was still passed out when I stumbled out of our hotel room, bleary-eyed. My mom gave my dad a questioning look as we left, but he just gave her that nod of his—the one that meant, I got this.

We walked through the city, past quiet streets where vendors were just setting up. I tried to figure out where we were going, but my dad wasn’t in the mood to answer questions.

“Seriously, where are we going?”

“You’ll like it.”

We turned a corner, and I saw the sign. Tiro a Segno Nazionale.

A shooting range.

I raised an eyebrow. “We’re shooting guns in Rome?”

My dad smirked. “Why not?”

Inside, the place smelled like gunpowder and oil. Paper targets lined the back wall, some riddled with holes. My dad walked up to the counter, spoke with the guy in charge, and before I knew it, we were in a private lane with a selection of firearms laid out in front of us.

I glanced at the setup—pistols, rifles, even a shotgun—and then at him. “How much is this costing you?”

He smirked. “Let’s just say there’s a 50% discount for ex-military soldiers.”

I scoffed. “Seriously?”

He shrugged. “Some benefits stick with you.”

I shook my head, picking up a pair of ear protectors. “Must be nice.”

“Damn right it is.”

My dad picked up a pistol first, giving me a quick refresher on stance and grip. Then he nodded toward the target.

“Go ahead.”

I exhaled, lined up my shot, and pulled the trigger. The first shot went wide. I adjusted, fired again.

“Better,” my dad said. “Again.”

We spent the next hour shooting—switching between pistols and rifles, adjusting my aim, tightening my grip. My dad didn’t say much, just little corrections here and there. But I could tell he was watching me, studying me.

After a while, he set his gun down and looked at me. “How’s it feel?”

I exhaled, rolling my shoulders. “Good.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I thought so.”

As we packed up, he gave me a look. “By the way…”

I raised an eyebrow.

He pointed at me. “Don’t tell your brother and mother about this.”

I smirked. “Seriously?”

He grinned. “Seriously.”

We walked back through the streets of Rome, the tension I’d been carrying for months feeling…lighter. Not gone, but less suffocating.

I glanced at my dad. “This is the part where you tell me shooting stuff won’t fix my problems, right?”

He smirked. “Nah. Shooting stuff is great.”

I actually laughed. First real one in a long time.

It had been a few weeks since Rome. Since the motorcycle. Since the shooting range. Since the moment I almost thought I was getting my head back on straight.

And then there was Isla.

She wasn’t Valeria. Maybe that was the appeal. Maybe that was the problem.

She was a wildfire, all sharp smirks and reckless dares. The kind of girl who never asked for permission and never apologized. On our first date, she made me sneak into a movie theater. On our second, we raced shopping carts in an empty parking lot until we nearly crashed into a dumpster. She always smelled like peppermint gum and cigarette smoke, even though I never saw her light one.

We spent afternoons at the skate park, even though neither of us skated. Late nights stealing fries off each other’s plates in the corner booth of some 24-hour diner. She liked fast cars, loud music, and kissing like it was a challenge.

It felt normal.

Or at least, it was supposed to.

"You thinking about her?"
One night, we were lying on the hood of her car, parked on some empty stretch of road outside town. The stars stretched wide above us, and everything felt still.

That’s when she said it.

"You thinking about her?"

I turned my head, found her watching me. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something in her voice—something careful.

“Who?” I asked, playing dumb.

She scoffed. “You know who.”

I exhaled through my nose. Looked back at the sky. “Does it matter?”

She was quiet for a long moment. Then, softer: “Only if I do.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

The Little Things
It was stupid things.

Like how she would flick my ear when I wasn’t paying attention—something Valeria used to do—but instead of making me laugh, it just pissed me off.

Or the way she’d hum songs while we drove—except they weren’t the right songs.

Or how she’d hold my hand, and I’d realize, too late, that I was holding it wrong.

I told myself it was fine. That it didn’t matter.

You’re with Isla now. Move on.

But moving on wasn’t as easy as people made it sound.

"Tell me something real."
One afternoon, Isla dragged me to her favorite spot—an abandoned train yard outside town.

We climbed onto the rusted-out remains of a boxcar, sitting side by side, legs dangling over the edge. She passed me a flask.

“What is it?” I asked, eyeing it.

“Liquid courage.”

I took a sip. Whiskey. Cheap, burning, but it did the trick.

We sat in silence for a while. Then she nudged me.

“Tell me something real.”

I frowned. “What?”

“Something you don’t tell people.”

I hesitated. Took another sip.

Then, before I could think better of it—“I don’t know how to let go.”

I hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Isla exhaled through her nose. Took the flask back. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I figured.”

Tiberius Noticed
One morning, while I was lacing up my boots, Tiberius leaned against my doorway, arms crossed.

“You don’t look happy,” he said bluntly.

I tied the knot tighter than I needed to. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

I sighed, sitting back on my bed. “Tib, drop it.”

He didn’t. “You still think about her, don’t you?”

I swallowed. Looked away.

Tiberius nodded like he already knew the answer. “You should just talk to her.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Yeah, it is.” He shrugged. “You either want to or you don’t.”

Almost Texting Her
That night, I had my phone in my hand.

Her name was still pinned at the top of my messages. My fingers hovered over the screen. I typed out Hey.

I stared at it.

Then I deleted it. Put my phone away.

Isla saw me. I could tell by the way her shoulders tensed, the flicker of something in her eyes.

But she didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

"Are You Even Here?"
We were sitting in her car, parked outside my house. The rain drummed lightly on the windshield, the wipers making slow, rhythmic passes.

She was talking—something about the weekend, some party her friends were throwing. I wasn’t really listening.

Not until her voice cut through the static in my head.

“Luc,” she said, sharp this time. “Are you even here?”

I blinked, turned to her. “What?”

She let out a breath, shaking her head. “You do that all the time. You just—drift. You’re sitting right next to me, but you’re not here.”

“I’m here.”

She scoffed. “No, you’re not.”

I clenched my jaw, gripping my knee. “Isla, what do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say something!” Her hands flew up, exasperated. “I feel like I’m dating a ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ghost, Lucanus!”

I exhaled through my nose, looked away. “Don’t do this right now.”

“Do what?” She let out a humorless laugh. “Try to have a real conversation with my boyfriend?”

I rubbed my temple. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that!” she snapped. “I talk, and you nod, or you say yeah or sure or some other half-assed response. But you’re not here.” She gestured between us. “You don’t see me.”

I stared out the window, watching the rain streak down the glass.

Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Then, softer, her voice breaking just a little:

“…You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”

I shut my eyes. Breathed through my nose.

She let out a bitter laugh. “Jesus Christ.”

“It’s not that simple.” My voice came out quieter than I wanted.

She turned to face me fully, eyes searching mine. “Yeah, it is.”

I swallowed. “Isla—”

“No,” she cut me off. “Just be honest with me for once, Luc. Do you even want this?”

I hesitated.

And that was it. That was the answer.

Her face twisted, like I’d just punched her in the gut. “God, you ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥.”

I sighed. “Isla, I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what?” Her voice was rising now, sharp, raw. “Didn’t mean to string me along? Didn’t mean to let me sit here and pretend like I mattered to you?”

She was hurt. I could hear it in her voice, see it in the way she gripped the steering wheel so tight her knuckles went white.

I wanted to fix it. I just didn’t know how.

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“Yeah?” She let out a sharp breath, blinking rapidly like she was trying to keep herself from losing it. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have wasted my ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ time.”

That one stung.

She stared at me for a long second. Then she exhaled, voice quieter now. Tired.

“…You should go.”

I hesitated.

But I knew better than to stay.

I pushed open the door, stepping into the rain, shutting it behind me without another word.

Graduation was supposed to feel like a big moment. A milestone. Something I’d look back on with pride.

But as I sat there in my cap and gown, surrounded by classmates I barely talked to, I just felt... detached. People cheered when their names were called. Parents cried. Teachers smiled, shaking our hands like they hadn’t spent years looking at us like problems they couldn’t wait to get rid of.

Mom was crying too. She pulled me into a hug the second I walked off the stage, her voice thick with emotion. “My baby’s all grown up.”

Tiberius rolled his eyes. “He’s not a baby, Mom. He’s an adult now.” Then he grinned at me. “Which means if he screws up, it’s all on him.”

Dad just shook my hand. A firm grip, a nod. No big speech, no long embrace. That wasn’t his way. But his eyes held something—pride, maybe. Or expectation.

And then, as we drove home, he hit me with it.

"So, you want to go to college, or you want a job?"

No build-up. No warning. Just laid it out right there in the truck, like I hadn’t even had a second to process being done with school.

I stared out the window. “I don’t know.”

"Well, you're not gonna sit around doing nothing. I can make some calls. See if any of my buddies have room for you."

"What kind of jobs?"

"Mechanic shop. Warehouse. Construction. Something that teaches you how to work."

"Sounds fun."

"It's not supposed to be fun. It's supposed to be useful."

And that was that. A few days later, I found myself walking into a dusty old auto shop on the edge of town, the air thick with oil, sweat, and cigarette smoke. The place smelled like metal and hard work.

And that’s where I met Julius.

First Day at the Shop
Julius was older, maybe late forties, built like he’d spent a lifetime moving heavy ♥♥♥♥. He had a thick beard, a permanent scowl, and arms covered in old scars and faded tattoos. His shirt had grease stains older than me.

"You the kid?" he asked, barely looking up from the engine he was working on.

"Guess so."

"Good. Get to work."

That was my introduction. No welcome speech. No small talk. Just a wrench shoved into my hand and a nod toward the first thing that needed fixing.

I wasn’t stupid. I knew my dad sent me here to learn something. Responsibility. Discipline. Hard work. Whatever lesson he thought I was missing.

The first few hours were hell. I stripped a bolt. Nearly dropped a car battery on my foot. Spilled oil all over the floor. The other guys laughed, but Julius just watched. Studying me.

"You ever done real work before?" he finally asked.

"I've worked harder than you, old man." I shot back, wiping sweat from my forehead.

Julius let out a short laugh. "Yeah? You don’t look it. You look like a kid who's used to quitting when ♥♥♥♥ gets tough."

That pissed me off, but I didn’t say anything.

I just grabbed the wrench and got back to work.

The 2-7 Off-Suit Conversation
By the second week, I was getting the hang of it. I still messed up, but I stopped hesitating. If I didn’t know how to do something, I figured it out.

One afternoon, Julius and I were working late, just the two of us. He had his sleeves rolled up, arms covered in old burns and scars. That’s when I noticed something—a tattoo on his forearm.

2-7 Off-Suit. A pair of playing cards.

"What’s that mean?" I asked.

Julius glanced at it, then at me. He leaned back against the workbench, wiping his hands on a rag. "You play poker?"

"A little."

"Then you know 2-7 Off-Suit is the worst hand you can get in Texas Hold ’Em. Cards you don’t wanna see."

"So why the hell would you get it tattooed?"

He smirked. "Because some guys don’t fold, no matter what they’re dealt."

That sat with me for a second. “Military?”

Julius didn’t confirm or deny it. He just rolled his sleeve back down. "Something like that."

Scars and Lessons
Later that night, we were locking up when I saw another scar. This one was deep, running along his forearm, half-covered by the tattoo.

"What happened there?"

Julius looked at it, flexed his fingers. "Occupational hazard."

"You ever regret it?" I asked.

He looked at me for a long moment. Then shook his head. "No. But I knew what I was signing up for."

That stuck with me.

Because for the first time, I started thinking—maybe I did need to sign up for something. Something bigger than myself. Something real.

And that’s when I started considering the military.

It had been a few months since I started working at the shop with Julius. At first, I had no idea what I was getting into—just that my dad thought it was the right thing for me. I didn’t expect much, but I was starting to see how the job was changing me, even when I didn’t want it to.

Julius wasn’t exactly warm, but he didn’t need to be. His way of pushing me was subtle, like a constant pressure that slowly built up over time. Whenever I made a mistake, he didn’t call me out for it. He just gave me a look and told me to fix it. Straight to the point. No sugarcoating. No sympathy. And honestly? It was starting to make sense to me.

One day, I was bent over a workbench, hands greasy and eyes focused on a busted-up engine. I heard Julius’s voice behind me, rough as usual.

"How’s it going, kid?" he asked, his tone neutral but cutting through the background noise of the shop.

I wiped my hands on a rag, not looking up from my work. "Getting there."

"You sure?" Julius asked, taking a few steps closer. I could feel his eyes on me. Not judgmental, just observant.

I stopped for a second, trying to figure out how to put it. "I mean, I’m making progress. But… I don’t know if it’s enough."

Julius didn’t respond immediately. He just stood there, looking at me like he was waiting for me to figure it out. Then, after a beat, he spoke again, his voice taking on a serious tone.

"You ever think about your future?"

I blinked, surprised by the question. I glanced up at him, still not sure where he was going with it. "What do you mean?"

Julius set his wrench down on the bench and walked over to a nearby stool. He leaned back, rubbing his hands together slowly. "I mean... after all this. After the shop. What’s your plan, kid?"

I shrugged, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. "I don’t know. Maybe college. Maybe work here. Hell, maybe neither."

Julius tilted his head, studying me with those sharp eyes of his. "Is that really what you want? To just... stay in this town, working the same job every day?"

I shifted uncomfortably, glancing around the shop. "I don’t know," I repeated, the weight of his question hanging in the air. "But what else is there? It’s not like I have any better options."

He stared at me for a long moment, then finally spoke again, his voice almost softer but still heavy. "You think this is all you’re capable of?"

I didn’t answer right away. "No, but..." I trailed off, not sure where I was going with it.

Julius held up a hand, stopping me before I could say more. "Kid, listen. You think you’re stuck? That this is the only thing you’re good for?" He leaned forward, his voice firm. "Let me tell you something. The world doesn’t owe you ♥♥♥♥. You don’t get to just sit around and wait for opportunities to fall into your lap. You gotta make 'em."

I stared at him, feeling a fire rise in my chest. "I’m not waiting for anything. I’m working here, aren’t I?"

"Yeah," he said, but his tone dropped. "You’re here. But you’re not all here. You’re barely putting in the effort. You show up, but you’ve got this anger hanging over you like a cloud. You think it’s gonna get you somewhere?"

I clenched my jaw. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Julius stared me down, his eyes hard and intense. "It means you’ve got a chip on your shoulder, Luc. You walk around like the world’s out to get you. Like everything’s a fight. But the truth is, you’re too busy fighting the wrong battles."

I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off.

"You want to hear what I see when I look at you?" Julius said, his voice low but steady. "I see a kid who’s pissed off at everything and doesn’t know what to do about it. A kid who thinks he’s too good for this job, but doesn’t have the guts to move on to something better. You’re stuck in the same loop, and you’re too damn proud to admit it."

I felt the anger rise up in me again, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t that same, raw anger that had gotten me nowhere before. This time, it was something different. Something sharper.

"Yeah, well," I said, my voice quieter now, "I don’t know how to get out of it."

Julius nodded, like he’d been expecting that. Then, after a long pause, he said, "What if you don’t get the hand you want, Luc? You gonna fold?"

I froze. The question hung in the air like a punch I wasn’t ready for.

"What?" I said, my voice hoarse.

Julius stood up straight and turned to look at me. "You heard me. What if life doesn’t hand you what you want? What if you’re stuck with the worst hand imaginable, and no matter how hard you try, you’re not getting anything better?" He paused, giving me a moment to process it. "You gonna fold? Or you gonna play the hand you’ve been dealt?"

I didn’t know how to answer. The words seemed to resonate with something deep inside me, but I couldn’t make sense of it.

Julius didn’t give me time to think it over. "You think you’re the only one who’s ever been handed a ♥♥♥♥ hand? Hell, kid, you’re not even close. But you know what? You don’t fold. You don’t quit when it’s hard. You suck it up, and you keep playing. You figure out how to win, even if the odds are stacked against you."

"How do you do that?" I asked, barely above a whisper.

Julius smirked, but there was no humor in it. "You stop whining. You stop blaming everyone else for your problems. You take responsibility for your life, your choices. You make it happen, no matter how ugly it gets."

I sat there, staring at him, trying to let it all sink in. My mind was spinning.

Julius saw my hesitation, his voice softer now. "Look, I’ve been in your shoes. I’ve been where you are. I’ve been pissed off at the world, thinking I had no choices. But the truth is, you always have a choice. Even when you think you don’t, you do."

I swallowed hard, my chest tight. "So, what? I just… go for it? Even if I don’t know what I’m doing?"

Julius nodded slowly, his gaze steady. "Exactly. You take the shot, kid. No one else is gonna do it for you. And if you fall on your face? Fine. Get up, dust yourself off, and try again."

I was silent for a long moment. His words were settling in, rattling around in my brain. I’d spent so long feeling like life had screwed me over, like I was stuck with no way out. But what if I had more control than I thought? What if I could choose what came next?

"What about you?" I asked, breaking the silence. "What’s your plan?"

Julius chuckled softly, like he knew what I was really asking. "My plan? I didn’t have a plan. I just showed up every damn day and did the best I could. The rest fell into place. You’ll figure it out, Luc. You just gotta stop waiting for someone to hand it to you."

The Shift in Perspective
The question had stuck with me. I went through the motions at the shop the next few days, but my mind was on a loop. What if I don’t get the hand I want? What if I had to play the hand I was dealt, even if it seemed like a losing one?

I started thinking more seriously about my options. I’d always assumed I didn’t have many. But what if I was wrong? What if the military was the shot I had to take?

I started looking into it, reading about it, researching what I’d need to do. The more I learned, the more it seemed like it could be the structure and purpose I’d been craving. Something I could build on. A way to stop folding and start playing for real.

The Decision
The conversation came a few weeks later, when my dad showed up at the shop to check on me. He stood next to me as I worked, not saying much at first.

After a while, he finally asked, "So, what’s next for you?"

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and gave him a sideways glance. "I’ve been thinking about it."

My dad raised an eyebrow, waiting for me to elaborate. "Like what?"

I hesitated. "Like the military."

He didn’t look surprised, just nodded. "I thought you might come to that."

I stared at him, unsure of what to say. Then, he patted me on the back, giving me a solid, encouraging slap. "Well, if that’s what you want, then go for it.

A few days later, I found myself standing outside the Raven Union Armed Forces recruitment office.

The building itself was nothing special—just another gray government structure squeezed between a post office and a pharmacy. But inside, the walls were covered in posters of soldiers in immaculate uniforms, fighter jets roaring across the sky, and armored vehicles kicking up dust in some nameless battlefield. Typical recruitment propaganda. I didn’t need the posters to sell me on it—I was already here.

I pushed open the door, stepping inside. The air smelled like old coffee, printer ink, and the faint scent of sweat from too many bodies in a small space. A few other guys were already waiting—some young like me, some older. A couple of them looked nervous, fidgeting with their paperwork. Others sat still, staring at the floor, like they’d already accepted whatever came next.

I walked up to the front desk, where a staff sergeant in uniform sat behind a computer. His nametag read Decimus. He looked like the kind of guy who had been doing this job way too long—his short dark hair starting to gray at the temples, deep lines carved into his face, and the tired, unimpressed look of someone who had seen too many hopeful recruits walk in and wash out.

He barely glanced up as I approached.

“Name?”

“Lucanus Quintus.”

He typed something on his keyboard. Click-click-click. Then, finally, he gave me a proper look, scanning me from head to toe.

“What are you here for?”

I knew the answer. So did he. But he still asked.

“I want to enlist.”

For a moment, he just studied me. Then he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

“Why?”

I wasn’t expecting that question right away. I knew my reasons, but saying them out loud felt different.

I exhaled, choosing my words carefully.

“I need something real,” I said. “I don’t want to waste my life doing nothing. I want to be part of something bigger than myself.”

Decimus nodded slowly, like he had heard it all before.

“Alright. You got ID?”

I pulled out my documents and handed them over. He flipped through them, then pulled out a folder from under his desk.

“You know this isn’t a damn action movie, right?” he said, thumbing through the papers. “You don’t just sign up, get a rifle, and start running around playing hero.”

“I know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

I met his stare, unblinking. “I’m not an idiot.”

Decimus smirked, shaking his head. “That remains to be seen.” He slid a few forms across the desk. “Fill these out. After that, you’ll take the General Aptitude and Assessment Battery (GAAB)—a written test to see where we can put you.”

I started filling in my name, date of birth, and other personal information while he kept talking.

“You’ll also do a physical fitness evaluation—running, push-ups, pull-ups, basic stuff. Then there’s the psych screening. If you get through all that, you’ll go for a medical exam.”

I kept writing, but I could feel his eyes on me.

“You got any medical issues? Injuries?”

“No.”

“Criminal record?”

“No.”

“Tattoo of a death cult or extremist group?”

I looked up, frowning. “What?”

Decimus smirked. “You’d be surprised.”

I shook my head and went back to the paperwork.

The First Test
An hour later, I was sitting in a small, windowless room with a dozen other recruits, taking the GAAB. The test wasn’t hard, but it was long—math, reasoning, mechanical knowledge, problem-solving. It was designed to weed out people who couldn’t think under pressure.

A few guys looked like they were already drowning, staring at the paper like it was written in a foreign language. One of them, a skinny kid with glasses, muttered, “♥♥♥♥,” every time he turned a page.

I kept my head down and worked through it. The test wasn’t the problem. I had already made up my mind—I wasn’t leaving this place without a way forward.

After the test, we were sent outside for the physical fitness evaluation.

A training sergeant—broad-shouldered, buzz cut, built like a war machine—stood with a clipboard.

“Alright, listen up,” he barked. “This is basic fitness. If you can’t handle this, don’t waste our time. You’ll run three kilometers, do as many push-ups and pull-ups as you can, and finish with a sprint. If you fall out, you’re done. Understood?”

A few guys mumbled, “Yes, Sergeant.”

“Did I ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ stutter?”

“YES, SERGEANT!”

“Good. Move.”

The run was easy enough, but some of the other recruits struggled. One guy threw up halfway through. Another collapsed before we hit the second kilometer.

When we moved on to push-ups, the training sergeant knelt beside a recruit struggling to hit ten.

“What the hell was that? Did your arms just stop working?”

I dropped down and focused. Block out the shouting, block out the pain.

Push through.

When I finished, I wiped the sweat off my face and stood with the others. The training sergeant walked up, scanning our faces.

“Not bad,” he said. “For civilians.”

The Final Step
After the physical, we were sent inside again for the final stage—the psych interview and medical exam.

I sat across from an officer, an older man with sharp eyes. He tapped his fingers against my file.

“So, kid,” he said. “What do you want out of this?”

The question sounded simple, but it wasn’t.

I thought for a second. “Discipline. A purpose. A challenge.”

He nodded. “You ever had to follow orders before?”

“Not really.”

“Then you’re in for a wake-up call.” He leaned back. “You ever kill someone?”

The question hit harder than I expected. “No.”

“Could you?”

I didn’t answer right away. Could I?

“If I had to,” I said.

The officer studied me. Then he nodded.

“You’ll learn.”

With that, he signed off on my file and sent me to medical.

The doctor checked my vision, my reflexes, took blood samples, and ran through a checklist of conditions. By the time it was done, I felt like I had been picked apart and put back together again.

Finally, I was sent back to the front desk. Decimus was still there, sipping bad coffee.

He glanced at my file. “Looks like you’re clear.” He slid a form in front of me.

“This is it,” he said. “Sign here, and you’re officially property of the Raven Union Armed Forces.”

I stared at the paper for a second.

This was it.

No turning back.

I picked up the pen and signed my name.

Decimus smirked. “Welcome to the real world, Kid.”

Enlistment Day
A few days after I made my decision, I found myself at the Raven Union Military Induction Center—a drab, gray building in the heart of the city. It looked exactly how I imagined a government facility would: plain, functional, built for efficiency, not comfort.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale coffee, printer ink, and too many bodies crammed into a small space. The waiting area was packed with young men and women, most around my age, some even younger.

I took a seat near the back, resting my arms on my thighs.

A guy across from me kept tapping his foot, chewing on his thumbnail. Behind me, I heard hushed whispers—one recruit murmuring, “My parents don’t even know I’m here.”

Across the room, a group of guys were already acting like they’d known each other for years, laughing about how they were ‘in it together now.’

I wasn’t in it with them. I wasn’t here to make friends.

A voice muttered beside me, “Feels like signing my soul away.”

I turned. The guy sitting next to me was tall and lean, with sharp features and short blond hair. His accent was noticeable—not thick, but different. Something Eastern European.

I smirked. "You look like you’ve already made peace with it."

He gave a short chuckle. "Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it." He glanced at my paperwork. "You new too?"

“Yeah.”

“Where from?”

“Here.” I gestured vaguely. "Born and raised in the city."

He nodded. “I’m from Vilberg.”

That explained it—Vilberg was up north, in the old Baltic territories. Colder. Harder.

"First time in the capital?" I asked.

"Been here a few times. Just never thought I’d be here for this.” He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “You enlist because you wanted to?”

I shrugged. "Didn’t have a better plan."

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

A guy sitting in front of us turned around, overhearing.

"You two sound like a couple of lost souls," he said with a grin. "You at least know what you signed up for?"

I glanced at him. He was broad-shouldered, a few years older than me, with dark, close-cropped hair.

“You do?” I shot back.

He laughed. "Hell no. But at least I know I don’t know." He stuck out a hand. "Becker."

I shook it. "Lucanus."

The foreign recruit beside me hesitated, then shook his hand too. "Adrik."

"Well, Adrik, Lucanus," Becker grinned. "Here’s to the biggest mistake of our lives."

The Oath of Allegiance
A junior officer strode in, clipboard in hand. His uniform was crisp, his posture perfect, like he’d been cut straight out of a recruitment poster. His gaze swept over the room, measuring.

“Listen up.” His voice was sharp, practiced. “You’re here for one reason—to take the oath. This is your last chance to walk away. Once you swear in, you’re in. No changing your mind after today.”

Silence.

A chair creaked. Someone let out a slow exhale, the sound loud in the still room.

The officer let the moment linger. Then he nodded. “Good. Follow me.”

We were led down a long, sterile hallway lined with recruitment posters. Honor. Discipline. Duty.

At the end of the corridor, we entered a ceremonial induction room—plain walls, a wooden podium at the front, a row of flags behind it, each representing a different province of the Raven Union.

An older officer stood behind the podium. His uniform was decorated with commendations, but the real mark of experience was the way he carried himself—calm, sure, like he had seen a hundred young recruits before us and knew exactly what was going through our heads.

His gaze swept over us.

Then he spoke.

“This isn’t a game. This isn’t just a job. This is a commitment—to the Union, to your comrades, to something greater than yourself. If you can’t accept that, leave now.”

No one moved.

The officer nodded. “Raise your right hand.”

We did. Fingers straight. Palm forward.

Then he began reciting the Oath of Allegiance.

"I, Lucanus Marius Quintus, do solemnly swear to serve the Raven Union with honor and discipline..."

We repeated it back. Some voices were strong. Others were shaky.

Becker, beside me, whispered after we finished, "Well. No turning back now."

Adrik muttered, "Not that there ever was."

The Orders
A non-commissioned officer (NCO) stepped forward next. Older, built like he’d been carved from stone. His uniform was worn, sleeves rolled up, a few small stains from what looked like coffee or oil.

"Alright, listen up. You’ll now receive your orders and travel information. Most of you will be shipped out within the next 48 hours. When your name is called, step forward, take your packet, and move to the side."

One by one, names were called.

"Stefanovic." A tall guy with dark hair stepped forward.
"Becker." Becker smirked at me before grabbing his packet.
"Kostova." A girl with sharp eyes and a set jaw.
"Quintus."

I stepped forward.

The NCO handed me a sealed envelope, barely sparing me a glance. “Take it and move along.”

Inside was everything—my orders, transport details, my training assignment.

"Camp Vortem, 12-Week Basic Military Training (BMT)."

Waiting for Deployment
After receiving our orders, we were moved into another waiting area. Smaller. Quieter. Some recruits made calls to their families. Others just sat there, staring at the floor, trying to process everything.

Adrik leaned over, peeking at my orders. “Vortem?”

I nodded. “You?”

He smirked. “Same. Guess we’re in this together.”

Becker groaned. “♥♥♥♥. Me too. They’re throwing us all in the same pit.”

I glanced at Adrik. “I never knew we allowed people from foreign countries to join the military.”

He chuckled. “Not just anyone. You gotta have ties to the Union—family, residency, sometimes special skills. My father was born here. I grew up in Vilberg, but I guess that makes me enough of a citizen to serve.”

Becker whistled. “That’s some ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥. I bet you still have to prove yourself twice as hard.”

Adrik smirked. “Probably.”

I raised a brow. “So, you’re here because you want to be?”

He let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Let’s just say… options were limited.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

He extended a hand. “Adrik.”

I shook it. “Lucanus.”

Becker clapped me on the shoulder. “Guess you’re stuck with us, Lucanus.”

I smirked. “Same to you.”

Whatever was coming next, we were in it now.

Arrival at Camp Vortem
The transport ride to Camp Vortem felt like it lasted forever. No one talked much, and the few who tried quickly gave up when the weight of what we were heading toward settled in. The initial excitement some recruits had back at the induction center had faded, leaving behind only a quiet tension.

I sat near the back of the transport, arms crossed, feeling the occasional jolt from the uneven road. The hum of the engine was constant, blending with the rattling of gear bags and the occasional cough from someone trying to shake off nerves.

Adrik sat next to me, his long legs stretched as much as they could in the cramped space. He flipped through his orders again, even though he’d already read them a dozen times.

"Still hoping they sent you somewhere else?" I asked, watching him out of the corner of my eye.

He snorted. "Just checking. Maybe I got lucky. Maybe they need me in some cushy office in the capital instead." He closed the folder with a sigh. "Nope. Still Camp Vortem."

"Wouldn’t want to disappoint you," I muttered.

He smirked. "Come on, Lucanus. It’s not so bad. Just twelve weeks of getting screamed at, running until we puke, and praying we don’t break something. What’s not to love?"

Before I could answer, someone a few rows up spoke. "How much further?"

"Should be close," another guy muttered. "Driver said we’d hit base before sundown."

No one responded after that. Just silence, the occasional rustling of papers, the low hum of the road beneath us. I turned to the window, watching as the landscape shifted from open fields to dense forest, then to nothing but a long, empty stretch of road.

Then, the transport slowed.

I leaned forward slightly as the first real sign of Camp Vortem came into view. A massive concrete wall loomed ahead, lined with razor wire and dotted with watchtowers, armed sentries keeping a careful eye on everything below. The place was built like a fortress.

A metal sign stretched over the entrance, bold letters standing out against the steel frame:

CAMP VORTEM – RAVEN UNION MILITARY TRAINING CENTER
"Honor. Discipline. Duty."

The transport passed through the gates, rolling onto a long, straight road lined with barracks and training fields. The place was huge—buildings stretching out in all directions, obstacle courses set up in the distance, drill instructors already shouting at fresh recruits marching in formation.

My stomach tightened. This was real now.

“Welcome to hell,” Adrik muttered beside me.

We barely had time to breathe.

The bus had barely stopped rolling before the drill instructors were already outside, waiting. As soon as the doors opened, they exploded into a storm of orders and curses.

“MOVE! MOVE! MOVE! OFF THE BUS! NOW!”

“GET YOUR DAMN FEET ON THE GROUND! I SAID MOVE!”

The noise hit like a shockwave.

Guys stumbled off the bus, tripping over their own feet. Someone dropped their bag, and before he could even reach for it—

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME, RECRUIT?! DID YOUR MOTHER RAISE A DAMN IDIOT?!”

A stocky, furious instructor—his uniform immaculate, his voice razor-sharp—descended like a bird of prey. The poor recruit didn’t even get a chance to speak before he was forced into a push-up position, palms smacking against the asphalt.

“THAT BAG WEIGHS LESS THAN YOUR BRAIN, AND YOU STILL CAN’T HOLD ON TO IT?! GIVE ME TWENTY! NOW!”

The rest of us? We kept our damn mouths shut and kept moving.

I felt Adrik fall into step beside me, his bag slung over one shoulder, expression unreadable. He wasn’t smirking anymore. None of us were.

We were shoved into formation, standing shoulder to shoulder, bags at our feet. Centurion Varro stepped forward—broad-shouldered, stiff posture, his eyes sharp and cold as he scanned us.

“You are nothing,” he said, voice even, but loud enough to carry. “Right now, you are soft. Weak. A burden. Our job is to make you soldiers. Your job is to survive.”

His gaze locked onto one recruit—a tall kid with glasses, still breathing hard from the rush off the bus.

Varro stepped in front of him, leaning in slightly. “Are you scared, recruit?”

The kid hesitated.

That was a mistake.

“ANSWER ME!” Varro’s voice cracked like a whip.

“N-no, Centurion!”

Varro’s expression didn’t change. “Liar.”

The kid’s throat bobbed, but he stayed silent.

Varro straightened, turning back to the rest of us. “Some of you will break before the week is out. Some of you will quit. That is your choice.” His eyes swept over us again, slow, deliberate. “But for those of you who stay—if you survive this, you will earn the right to call yourselves soldiers of the Raven Union.”

Silence.

A gust of cold wind cut through the courtyard.

Then, one of the instructors stepped forward. “You have exactly ten seconds to grab your gear and form up by the barracks! If you fail—YOU RUN! MOVE!”

And just like that, chaos erupted.

The Barracks – First Night
By the time we reached the barracks, my shoulders were burning, my legs felt like lead, and my throat was dry from sucking in the cold night air.

We were shoved inside—a long, plain room lined with metal-framed bunks. No decoration, no comfort. Just bunks, footlockers, and a set of rules posted on the wall.

Before anyone could even think about resting, another instructor entered. Instructor Delya.

She was tall, built like a warhorse, her uniform sleeves rolled up, revealing corded forearms lined with scars. Her eyes were sharp and unforgiving.

"Listen up," she said, voice cold, level. "I'm not here to be your friend. I'm not here to make you feel welcome. I am here to make you hate your pathetic, useless civilian selves so much that you will do anything to become soldiers. You will wake up at 0430. You will follow every order. You will not speak unless spoken to. Do I make myself clear?"

"YES, INSTRUCTOR!"

The response wasn’t in sync. Some voices cracked. Some were too quiet.

Delya’s nostrils flared.

“That was pathetic.”

No one dared breathe.

“Hit the floor. Twenty push-ups. Now.”

The room erupted into motion, boots hitting the wooden floor as we dropped into position.

“ONE!”

“ONE, INSTRUCTOR!”

“TWO!”

“TWO, INSTRUCTOR!”

By fifteen, my arms were screaming. By twenty, I knew this was only the beginning.

Bunk Assignments
We got paired up at random. No choosing, no arguing. Just whoever was standing next to you.

“Quintus!”

I stepped forward.

“Bunk three, bottom. Next!”

Right after me—

“Vostov!”

I saw Adrik step forward, his expression unreadable.

Delya barely glanced at him. “Top bunk. Try not to fall off.”

Adrik grunted in amusement, tossing his bag onto the mattress. "Guess I’m sleeping up high."

I sat down on the lower bunk, rolling my shoulders. "At least you get air up there."

He smirked. "And you get crushed if I fall. Win-win."

Lights Out
Exhaustion weighed on me like a lead blanket, but sleep didn’t come easy.

The room was too quiet.

Some guys were whispering in hushed voices. Somewhere in the back, someone was sniffling—probably regretting their life choices already.

Above me, Adrik shifted. "Hey, Lucanus."

I sighed. "What?"

"You think this is the worst it’s gonna get?"

I let my eyes shut. "No."

Adrik huffed a short laugh. "Yeah. Me neither."

Silence.

Then—

The barracks door slammed open.

A voice roared through the room.

“ON YOUR FEET! NOW! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!”

I barely had time to register the words before the room exploded into motion.

First Week had begun.

The barracks door slammed open like an explosion.

"ON YOUR FEET! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!"

The overhead lights blazed on, stabbing through the darkness, turning the room into a blinding hell. Metal bunks groaned. Boots slammed against the wooden floor. Groggy recruits scrambled like rats trying to escape a sinking ship, fumbling for gear with hands that still clung to sleep.

I was already halfway up by the time my brain caught up with my body. Adrik swung down from his top bunk, moving with practiced efficiency, already reaching for his boots. Across the aisle, Becker?

He didn’t even sit up.

Instead, he groaned, rubbed his face, and muttered, "Oh great. This is how I die."

Before I could respond, a shadow loomed over him.

Instructor Delya.

She wasn’t the tallest, but she didn’t need height to command a room. Mid-20s, blonde hair tied back tight, sharp features, and a gaze that could make a grown man reconsider his entire existence. She carried herself like she was carved from stone—strict, sharp, and unyielding. There was nothing soft about her.

And yet—some dumb bastard still had to make a comment.

"♥♥♥♥, she’s kinda hot," someone muttered near the back.

There was a split second where the air seemed to freeze.

Then Delya moved.

Fast.

The recruit barely had time to blink before she closed the distance.

CRACK.

Her fist connected square with his face—bone against bone. The impact was sharp, brutal, and final. The poor idiot’s head snapped back, his legs gave out, and he collapsed like a sack of potatoes.

Nobody said a word.

Not even a breath.

Delya adjusted her sleeve, completely unfazed. "Anyone else have thoughts they’d like to share?"

Silence.

"Good."

She turned, her boots clicking against the wooden floor. Then her cold gaze fell on Becker, who was still lying in bed like he wasn’t at a very high risk of dying.

"You having a nice dream, Recruit Becker?"

Becker squinted up at her, eyes still heavy with exhaustion. "Not anymore, Instructor."

Delya didn’t react. No emotion. No expression. Just pure, cold authority.

"You know what happens to recruits who think they can sleep in?"

Becker, to his credit, actually thought about it. Then, in a completely deadpan voice, he said, "They get extra rest to be more effective soldiers?"

Silence.

The entire barracks froze.

The air itself seemed to hold its breath.

Delya’s nostrils flared ever so slightly. "Front-leaning rest position. NOW."

Becker sighed dramatically. "Yep. Saw that coming."

"THAT’S TEN SECONDS TOO SLOW—GET YOUR FACE IN THE DIRT!"

He dropped, bracing himself in a push-up position. His arms trembled before he even started. The rest of us barely had time to grab our gear before another instructor stormed in.

"FULL KIT! OUTSIDE! NOW!"

Warm-Up
The morning air hit like a gut punch—cold enough to slap the drowsiness out of us, sharp enough to sting our lungs.

We formed up in a line outside, standing stiff in our full gear. The ground was still damp from the night before, our boots already wet, our uniforms clinging to our skin. Overhead, the sky was a dull gray, heavy with the promise of more suffering.

Instructor Varro paced in front of us, his hands clasped behind his back, his presence commanding silence. "Warm-ups. You will move when I say. You will stop when I say. And if any of you get the bright idea to slack off—" his gaze slid over to Becker, "—you will suffer."

Becker, to his credit, just nodded solemnly. "Understood, Instructor. Suffering is my specialty."

Varro’s lips barely twitched—almost amusement, but not quite. "Good."

Then it began.

Jumping jacks. Squats. High knees. More push-ups. Each movement blurring into the next with no time to breathe.

Sweat beaded on my forehead, my arms burning. The recruits around me grunted and groaned, some barely keeping up, others looking like they were about to drop.

Then came the worst part.

Burpees.

"DOWN! UP! DOWN! UP!"

I hit the ground, pushed up, jumped, then hit the ground again. Over and over. My lungs felt like they were turning inside out.

Adrik was breathing like a dying horse. Becker? He just made a choked, despairing sound before collapsing into the push-up portion.

I didn’t even have the energy to laugh.

By the time we finished, my muscles felt like rubber, my heartbeat slammed against my ribs, and my uniform was drenched in sweat.

Becker, lying flat on his back, gasped, "Okay. New plan. We desert. Fake our deaths. Open a bakery."

I nudged his boot. "You bake?"

"Not the point, Lucanus."

"ON YOUR FEET!"

Becker groaned but hauled himself up, muttering about regretting every life choice that led him here.

Running – Where Dreams Go to Die
"Welcome to your morning run!"

The instructor’s cheerful tone was an insult to our suffering.

Five kilometers. Full kit.

We weren’t pacing ourselves. We were pushing.

Boots pounded against dirt and gravel, the rhythmic slamming a drumbeat of exhaustion. My gear felt heavier with every step, pressing down like a sack of stones.

A few guys were already falling behind. One recruit, a short, wiry kid, started to stumble. He didn’t even get the chance to slow down before an instructor was right next to him, barking in his ear.

"You tired, recruit?"

"N-no, Instructor—"

"DOESN’T LOOK THAT WAY! PICK IT UP OR QUIT!"

The kid pushed himself forward, wheezing.

Next to me, Becker let out a low whistle. "Poor bastard. We placing bets on who drops next?"

I didn’t respond. I was too busy trying to survive.

But Becker? He kept talking.

"You know, Lucanus," he panted, "I had other career options. Things that didn’t involve, you know, dying."

I shot him a look. "Then why the hell are you here?"

He grinned, even through his exhaustion. "Would you believe me if I said ‘bad decisions’?"

I didn’t even have the energy to roll my eyes.

A few paces later, he groaned, shaking out his arms. "Okay, but real talk—are we running until we die, or is there a scenic route where we get breakfast first?"

Instructor Delya heard him.

Before he could react, she was suddenly right beside him, running effortlessly while he looked like he was about to collapse.

"Oh, you want breakfast, Recruit Becker?"

He straightened immediately. "Uh—"

"DROP. PUSH-UPS. NOW."

Becker let out a long, drawn-out sigh. "I hate it here."

"WHAT WAS THAT?!"

"Nothing, Instructor," he said quickly.

Too late.

"EVERYONE! JOIN HIM!"

A chorus of groans followed.

Adrik muttered, "If we don’t make it through this, I’m haunting Becker’s ass."

Becker, still doing push-ups, wheezed, "At least I’ll have company."

The Aftermath
By the time the run ended, my legs were pure fire, my back ached from the weight of my gear, and my lungs felt shredded.

Becker? He looked like he had seen death and was contemplating shaking its hand.

We stood in formation, drenched in sweat, barely able to keep from collapsing.

Instructor Varro’s eyes scanned us, unimpressed.

"That was pathetic."

Becker, still panting, muttered, "Good to know I’m meeting expectations."

Varro’s eyes snapped to him.

"Recruit Becker. Do you love push-ups?"

Becker blinked. "Absolutely not, Instructor."

"Then I suggest you stop running your mouth before you fall in love with them."

Becker shut up.

For once.

The overhead lights snapped on like a detonation, white-hot and searing.

Before I could register I was awake, the yelling started.

"ON YOUR FEET! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!"

Cots rattled. Boots hit the floor. Bodies lurched into motion.

Someone fumbled with their gear.

"You got TEN SECONDS before I make EVERYONE pay for your incompetence!"

Heart hammering, I yanked my uniform on, lacing my boots with half-numb fingers. Sleep deprivation had gnawed away at us for days, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t an excuse.

We fell into formation, backs straight, breaths steady, exhaustion buried beneath discipline.

Then—something different.

Instead of the usual pre-dawn punishment—calisthenics, sprint drills, endless laps—we were marched straight to the obstacle course.

And from the sheer size of it, I knew today was going to hurt.

The Course
It sprawled across the training grounds like a battlefield.

Twenty stations stretched over the uneven terrain. Walls slick with morning dew, trenches filled with stagnant water, barbed wire tight enough to rip flesh, thick ropes hanging from wooden beams, weighted dummies lying in wait for us to drag them across the dirt.

It wasn’t just a test of strength. It was designed to break us.

Centurion Varro stood at the front, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t need to raise his voice. His presence alone carried weight—calm, collected, utterly unimpressed.

“This course will separate the weak from the strong,” he said. “Some of you will finish. Some of you won’t. And some of you will leave on a stretcher.”

No one moved. No one breathed too loud.

Behind him, the instructors stood like wolves, waiting. Watching.

One of them stepped forward—Instructor Delya. Her cold gaze swept over us, looking for the first crack.

"You will complete this course in squads," she said. "You will move as a unit. If one of you fails, you all fail. If one of you falls behind, you will carry them. No one gets left behind."

A pause.

Then—

"FIRST SQUAD, STEP UP."

We moved forward.

Adrik, rolling his shoulders loose. Becker, exhaling slow, jaw tight. Others beside me, unreadable.

The instructors wasted no time.

“GO!”

Station One: Log Hurdles
The first station hit like a hammer.

Thick logs staggered at chest height, slick with condensation. No climbing. No jumping. Just raw strength and momentum.

I slammed my hands onto the first one, hoisted myself up, and swung my legs over. The landing sent a jolt up my spine, but there was no time to adjust.

The second log was higher. The third, worse.

A grunt behind me.

Becker.

He hesitated, boots slipping against the damp wood.

"Get over it, Becker!" an instructor barked. "You planning to take a ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ nap?"

Becker gritted his teeth, swung a leg over, and tumbled onto the dirt. No time to dwell on it.

We kept moving.

Station Two: Barbed Wire Crawl
Mud. Cold, thick, and suffocating.

We dropped to our stomachs and started crawling. The barbed wire was too low—no room for error. One wrong move, and you’d leave with a shredded uniform and a bleeding back.

A grunt ahead. Someone got snagged. Blood.

Then—panic.

A recruit from another squad froze. His uniform was tangled in the wire, chest rising too fast.

Delya was on him instantly.

"What's wrong with you, recruit?" she hissed, crouching low. "Scared of a little metal?"

The kid tried to speak.

Wrong move.

She grabbed his vest and yanked him forward. The wire tore into his sleeve. Blood welled up.

"I'd rather send a corpse into battle than someone like you," she spat. "You're done. Get out of my sight."

He didn’t move. His squad hesitated.

I grit my teeth.

No time. No thinking. Just action.

I shifted forward, grabbed his vest, and yanked hard. The fabric ripped free from the wire.

"Move," I muttered.

His wide eyes locked onto mine for half a second before he scrambled forward.

Delya’s gaze snapped to me. I braced for whatever hell she was about to unleash.

But she didn’t say a word.

She just gave me a long, unreadable look before standing and walking away.

I exhaled and kept crawling.

Station Three: Wall Climb
Ten feet of solid wood. No grips. No handholds. Just get up, or fail.

Adrik went first, scaling it with practiced ease. Becker followed, slower, but steady.

Someone else—short, stocky—jumped. Fingers brushed the ledge. Slipped.

Again. Missed.

A sharp curse under his breath.

I crouched low. "Foot on my shoulder."

A hesitation.

"We don’t have time for this," I snapped. "Go."

A moment’s pause, then he planted a boot on my shoulder. I pushed up, legs shaking from exhaustion, and he barely caught the ledge.

He grunted, heaving himself over.

My turn.

I jumped, caught the edge, and forced my way up. My arms felt like they were tearing at the seams, but I wasn’t letting go.

We kept moving.

The Final Stretch
The last few obstacles blurred.

Dragging hundred-pound dummies. Crawling through flooded trenches. Climbing ropes with shaking limbs.

By the time we reached the final sprint, my body felt hollow. My lungs burned, my uniform was soaked in mud and sweat, and every breath tasted like iron.

But we didn’t stop.

We couldn’t.

We staggered across the finish.

Not clean. Not perfect. But together.

Chest heaving, I barely registered the tap on my shoulder.

The short, stocky recruit I had boosted up the wall stood beside me, breathless.

"You didn’t have to do that," he muttered.

I shrugged. "You were in my way."

He chuckled, voice raw from exhaustion. "Right. Well… I owe you one."

He straightened, wiped a hand over his face, then stuck it out.

"Severus."

I looked at him for a moment, then clasped his hand.

Lucanus.

A simple nod between soldiers.

Because this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

The air smelled like hot brass and gunpowder, thick with the acrid scent of burnt propellant. The sun hung high over the range, baking the sand and dirt beneath our boots, but the real heat came from the weight of expectation. This wasn’t just about shooting. It was about learning to fight, to kill, and to do it efficiently.

Centurion Varro stood with his hands clasped behind his back, the picture of control, his gaze sharp as a blade. He didn’t pace, didn’t fidget. He simply watched, judging us before we even touched a weapon.

"Your rifle is not a tool. It is an extension of your will," he said, his voice like steel. "If you hesitate, you die. If you miss, you die. If you fumble under pressure, your squad dies. There is no room for failure."

I shifted my weight slightly, feeling the cool polymer grip of the G36K in my hands. It felt solid, balanced—a good rifle. It wasn’t the first time I had held one, but this was different. Today, we weren’t just learning. Today, we proved whether we were worth the ammunition.

Adrik, our team leader, carried the G36C—shorter, lighter, made for leading the charge in tight environments. It suited him, compact and aggressive. Becker, lugging the FN Minimi, had already started to sweat under the weight of his weapon. He was our machine gunner, the one responsible for keeping heads down when things got bad. Severus, silent and unreadable as always, carried the grenade launcher slung across his chest.

Weapon Familiarization & Drills
The first thing they had us do was strip the rifles down. We were given exactly two minutes to disassemble and reassemble them.

"Blindfolds on," Instructor Delya ordered.

I swallowed, feeling the cloth tighten over my eyes before the command was given. Go. My fingers worked from memory—thumb pressing the takedown pin, upper receiver separating from the lower. Find the bolt carrier. Pull it. Feel the recoil spring.

Next to me, I heard Becker muttering curses under his breath. He was struggling, the delicate work clashing with the brute strength he used to manhandle the Minimi. That weapon was his burden—a beast of a machine gun, belt-fed, powerful, but a nightmare to reload under pressure.

"Tick tock," Delya taunted. "When you're dead in the dirt, your excuses won't bring you back to life."

I locked the G36K back together, yanking the bolt to make sure it was smooth. Blindfold off. Done.

Adrik was already standing, arms crossed. Show-off. Severus finished a second after me, grinning slightly like this was a game to him. Becker? Still fumbling.

"Minimi is a different beast," he grunted, sweat beading on his forehead. "Not built for this kind of thing."

"Not built for excuses either," I muttered, earning a glare.

The moment Becker finished, they threw us into loading drills. Live magazines now, inserting under stress, slapping the bolt release, chambering a round. "Faster! Faster!" The instructors screamed. Hands moved quickly, some smoother than others. The weakest link would bring the rest of us down.

Live Fire – Learning the Hard Way
We lined up, weapons at the ready, hearts hammering. The first command was simple.

"Fifty meters. Controlled bursts. Fire!"

I took a slow breath, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. The G36K kicked against my shoulder, the short burst cutting through the air. Three rounds. Center mass. Steel target rang in response. Again. Slow breath. Squeeze. Hit.

Adrik was precise. His shots grouped tight, almost perfect. Severus took a little longer but found his rhythm. Becker? The Minimi barked out a roar, sending a relentless stream of rounds downrange. I glanced at him. He was doing well—but I could see the sweat on his forehead, the effort in his grip.

Delya wasn’t impressed. "Control, Becker! You trying to burn through an entire belt in three seconds?"

He adjusted, slowing his bursts.

Then came the next challenge—movement drills.

"Bounding fire!" Adrik barked. He was already stepping into his role as team leader, calling the shots. "Becker, suppression!"

Becker let loose a short burst, the machine gun chattering, forcing the “enemy” to keep their heads down. I sprinted forward, rifle up, scanning for threats. The G36K felt right in my hands, the sling tight across my chest, my body moving as one with the weapon. Breathe. Aim. Fire. Move.

THUMP.

A grenade launcher discharged.

I turned just in time to see a target dummy get obliterated in the distance.

For a second, even the instructors hesitated.

Severus lowered the grenade launcher, looking entirely too satisfied.

Adrik ran a hand down his face. "Please tell me you actually know what you're doing with that thing."

Severus shrugged. "I mean... yeah."

I narrowed my eyes. "Where the hell did you learn to shoot a grenade launcher?"

He smirked. "Video games."

I stared at him. "... You're joking."

"Nope." He loaded another round, completely unbothered.

Adrik groaned. "We're so screwed."

Malfunctions & Problem-Solving Under Fire
Then came the real test—♥♥♥♥ hitting the fan.

Becker’s Minimi jammed.

It happened mid-drill. One second, he was laying down covering fire, the next—click. Nothing.

He cursed, yanking back the charging handle, trying to clear the malfunction. The belt feed was stuck. I saw the frustration in his face, the panic setting in.

"Becker, fix it! Now!" Adrik snapped.

Becker’s hands fumbled. Too slow.

Delya was on him in a second, grabbing the Minimi and shoving it back into his chest. "You are carrying the lifeline of this squad, recruit! You ♥♥♥♥ this up in combat, and they die first!"

He grit his teeth and tried again, sweat dripping from his brow. This time, he cleared it. The moment it was ready, he snapped the bolt forward, eyes locked in determination.

Delya nodded, just barely. "Better. But not good enough."

I wasn’t safe either.

My G36K had a double-feed malfunction. I recognized it the moment I tried to fire—dead trigger. I didn’t even think. Magazine out, lock bolt back, clear the jam, new mag in, bolt release, back in action.

Instructor Delya’s eyes flicked to me. She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t need to.

I got the message: Good. Now do it faster.

Final Marksmanship Test & Squad Dynamics
The last event was a competition. No instructors screaming in our ears this time—just us, our weapons, and the steel targets. Whoever landed the most accurate shots won.

Adrik? Precise as ever, damn near flawless. Becker? His grouping was messy, but suppression wasn’t about precision—it was about volume. Minimi worked best when it was chewing through targets, not picking them off.

Severus? He obliterated the furthest targets with grenade rounds that landed exactly where he wanted them.

I finished just behind Adrik, but I wasn’t satisfied. I should’ve done better. I could’ve been faster.

As we packed up our gear, Becker nudged me with his elbow. "Not bad, huh?"

"Yeah," I muttered. "Not bad."

But deep down, I knew this wasn’t enough.

The real test? That was still coming.

If marksmanship was about precision, CQB was about instinct. Hesitation meant death. Seconds mattered. A single mistake could get your entire team killed.

The shoot house loomed ahead—gray concrete walls, doorways like gaping maws. A kill house designed to forge killers.

Centurion Varro stood before us, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone. "You will learn to move as a unit. You will learn to kill as a unit. If you fail, you will run it again. And again. Until failure is beaten out of you."

Instructor Delya paced beside him, baton in hand. The enforcer. The executioner.

"First squad up. Breacher, ready the door."

That was me.

I tightened my grip on the M1014, the familiar weight steady in my hands. Twelve-gauge shells loaded—buckshot, perfect for room clearing. Behind me, Adrik, our team leader, gripped his G36C, compact and built for close-quarters combat. Becker hefted the FN Minimi, our firepower. Severus had his grenade launcher slung, his sidearm drawn—grenades weren’t ideal indoors, but he’d make them count if needed.

We stood outside the shoot house, sweat beading under our helmets, weapons locked and loaded. The air smelled like spent gunpowder and dirt. This wasn’t a static range. The targets moved. Some shot back.

Adrik took point, his voice low but firm. "Stack up."

I pressed against the wall beside the door, M1014 raised, waiting. Becker was behind me, the Minimi hanging low in his grip, heavy and cumbersome for a confined space. Severus took the rear, eyes sharp, a pistol held tight in a practiced grip.

Adrik gave the signal. "Breacher, go."

I took a breath, raised the M1014, and fired.

BOOM.

The door exploded inward, wood splintering, hinges tearing free. The moment it gave way, I moved—pivoted right.

Target.

I fired—buckshot shredded the silhouette.

Adrik went left, controlled bursts from his G36C dropping another target. Becker pushed in, Minimi hammering, its bark deafening in the tight space.

Severus followed, covering our backs.

"Room clear," Adrik called.

No time to breathe. We pushed forward.

Hallway Combat – The Choke Point
The next section was a hallway. A perfect kill zone.

Walls closed in around us, no cover, no retreat. The moment we stepped into that funnel, we were dead men walking—unless we moved first.

Adrik raised a fist. We froze. Targets ahead.

"Becker."

Becker stepped forward, bracing the Minimi.

Then he let loose.

The hallway erupted with gunfire.

Brass rained onto the concrete, casings clinking, hot smoke curling from the barrel. The paper silhouettes were shredded in an instant, torn apart under the sustained burst.

"Move!"

We pushed forward through the echoes and the haze, pressing before the next wave of targets could pop up.

Grenade Training – The Art of Controlled Chaos
We regrouped outside, reloading magazines, wiping sweat from our brows. The next drill? Explosives.

Delya stood before us, a live grenade rolling between her fingers like a coin. Not smoke. Not a dummy. Live.

Her eyes scanned us, cold and predatory. "If you can’t throw a grenade properly, you’re more dangerous to your squad than the enemy. Some of you will panic. Some of you will hesitate. Some of you will get your own team killed."

She let the weight of her words sink in.

Then she stopped in front of Severus.

"Think you can handle it, grenadier?"

Severus barely blinked. "It’s just timing and trajectory."

Delya’s brow twitched. "Is that so?"

She pulled the pin.

The spoon flew off, hissing, the four-second fuse burning down.

Then she tossed it at his feet.

For a split second, the world froze.

Adrik tensed. Becker’s eyes went wide. My pulse slammed against my skull.

Severus reacted instantly—snatched it up, reared back, and hurled it downrange in one smooth motion.

We hit the dirt as it detonated with a thunderous BOOM, a shockwave rippling through the ground.

A second of silence. Then, dust and shrapnel rained down in the safe zone.

Delya studied Severus for a long moment. Then, with the faintest smirk, she moved on.

I exhaled. Then turned to him.

"Where the hell did you learn to throw like that?"

Severus grinned, wiping the dust from his sleeve.

"Played baseball."

Adrik let out a breathy chuckle. Becker just muttered, "What the ♥♥♥♥ is wrong with this place?"

Delya overheard. She smiled.

Because this was just the beginning.

Failure Is Pain
The final room.

Flashbang in—BOOM.

I moved—too slow.

Pain exploded in my ribs.

Delya’s baton struck hard, knocking the breath from my lungs. I gritted my teeth, sucking in air through clenched teeth.

I had hesitated.

Varro stood in the shadows, arms crossed, watching. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

"Again," Delya ordered.

We ran it again.

And again.

And again.

Until hesitation was beaten out of us.

Aftermath – Camaraderie in Pain
The sun had long since dipped below the horizon when training finally ended. We were coated in sweat and dust, bruises already forming beneath our fatigues.

Becker dropped onto a bench, groaning. "I think I left my spine in that damn hallway."

Severus leaned against the wall, rolling his shoulder. "Could be worse. Could be live ammo."

I sat beside them, silently wiping down my M1014, replaying every mistake in my head. I needed to be faster. Better.

Adrik, standing nearby, glanced at me, then gave a single nod—approval. Unspoken, but understood.

Tomorrow, we would do it all again.

Because failure wasn’t an option.

The Pit – Learning to Bleed
The air in the training yard was thick with dust and sweat, the sun barely above the horizon, but already the heat clung to our skin. Our bodies ached from the week’s drills—muscles torn down and rebuilt under the instructors’ relentless demands—but today wasn’t about running, shooting, or tactical formations.

Today was about learning how to fight when everything else failed.

Instructor Delya stood before us, arms crossed over her black t-shirt, the fabric clinging to her frame, her camo pants dusted from the morning drills. She was as much a part of the battlefield as the dirt under our boots—lean muscle, sharp features, a presence that made men shrink without her ever raising her voice.

Her eyes swept over us like a predator surveying prey. "Your rifle is your first weapon. Your sidearm is your second. If you’re lucky, you’ll have a knife. But luck runs out. Ammunition runs out. Weapons jam, get lost, get knocked out of your hands."

She stepped forward, boots crunching against the dry earth. "When that happens, it’s just you and the enemy. And if you don’t know how to fight—" She let the words hang for a moment, then smirked. "Then you’ll die screaming in the dirt."

A long pause. Then she motioned toward the center of the pit—an open, sand-covered ring surrounded by recruits.

"Pair up. Fight."

No warm-up. No hesitation. No mercy.

The Fights Begin
Becker squared up across from me, his stance too stiff, his hands too high. He had power—a wall of muscle—but power didn’t mean ♥♥♥♥ without technique.

"Relax," I muttered, rolling my shoulders. "You're overthinking it."

"Yeah, well, forgive me if I don’t regularly beat the ♥♥♥♥ out of people for fun," he shot back.

"You will soon."

He threw the first punch, a clumsy right hook. I sidestepped, felt the wind of his fist skim past my cheek, and stepped into his guard. Close range was my space. Before he could recover, I drove my knee into his ribs—just hard enough to send a message.

Becker stumbled back, coughing.

Delya’s voice cut through the yard like a blade. "What the hell was that, Becker? You trying to hug him? Move like that in a real fight, and he’ll be wearing your teeth as a necklace."

Becker wiped sweat from his brow, nostrils flaring. He wasn’t mad at me. He was mad at himself.

"Again," I said.

This time, he was smarter. He charged low, going for a grapple, using his weight against me. If he got me to the ground, he’d win. But I twisted my hips, broke his grip, and used his own momentum to send him sprawling onto the sand.

A sharp thud.

Becker groaned, staring up at the sky. "♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥."

I reached out my hand. "Come on. Again."

By the time I pulled him up, I caught Delya watching.

She didn’t say anything—just a tilt of her head, a flicker of something in her expression. Approval? Interest? It was gone before I could be sure.

Survival Training & Three-on-One
As the fights dragged on, the real lessons began.

Pain tolerance. How to keep moving when your ribs felt like they were caving in. How to break a nose, dislocate a shoulder, make a man wish he was dead long before he actually was.

Adrik? He fought like a wolf—ruthless, efficient, cruel. He didn’t throw punches; he ended fights. Severus? He was precise. He let his opponent waste energy, then struck with clinical brutality.

Then there was Becker. He took his beatings, learned from them, got back up every time.

Until he didn’t.

At some point, he went down hard. Didn’t get back up.

The instructors didn’t move. They were waiting. Either he got up himself, or he was done.

I stepped toward him.

Delya’s voice snapped like a whip. "You help him, you fight next."

I met Becker’s eyes. He was spent. Beaten down. But if he stayed down, he wouldn’t come back from it—not just here, but later.

♥♥♥♥ it.

I grabbed him by the vest, hauled him up. "On your feet."

Becker swayed, coughed, then nodded. "Yeah… yeah, I got it."

Delya smirked. "Fine. Quintus, you’re up. Three-on-one."

I exhaled through my nose, stepped into the ring, and let instinct take over.

Final Lesson – No Mercy
Near the end of training, Delya called me out personally. Tossed me a rubber training knife.

"Fight me."

I hesitated. Mistake.

She moved faster than I could think. One second I was standing; the next, I was on my back, the blade pressed against my throat.

"Dead."

She stood, tossing the knife back. "Again."

I attacked first. It didn’t matter. She countered, flipped me over, twisted my arm until my shoulder screamed.

"Dead again."

Over and over, until every instinct in me screamed to just survive.

The final time, I didn’t hesitate. I faked left, forced her to react, then drove forward, letting pain and exhaustion fall away. I didn’t think. I just moved.

This time, I nearly got her.

She barely stopped my strike in time, the blade inches from her side. For the first time, her smirk flickered.

"Better."

I was breathing hard, sweat dripping into my eyes. I barely heard her next words.

"Fighting isn’t about strength. It’s about control. Efficiency. Speed." She leaned in slightly. "And most of all—no mercy."

By the time combat training ended, we weren’t the same.

The Teasing
That night, in the barracks, the guys weren’t about to let it slide.

"Not bad, Quintus," Adrik smirked, elbows on his knees. "Almost lasted a full thirty seconds against her that time."

Becker, lying on his bunk with an ice pack on his ribs, chuckled. "Yeah, and she actually looked impressed. I think she likes you."

I rolled my eyes. "Shut up."

"Oh no, no, no, don’t fight it," Becker grinned, ignoring the pain. "You saw how she looked at you. That’s the look of a woman thinking, ‘Damn, this one actually survived.’"

"Yeah, right before she beat my ass again."

Becker winced as he shifted. "Nothing says romance like attempted murder."

Adrik smirked. "Maybe she just likes breaking you in."

Severus, silent the whole time, finally spoke.

"If that’s how she flirts," he muttered, "then good luck surviving that relationship."

Laughter rippled through the barracks. I just shook my head.

Outside, the night was quiet. Training was done. But something had shifted.

Delya had noticed me.

And I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a very, very bad thing.

We were stripped down to the essentials—no rations, no tents, no comforts. Just a knife, a canteen, and the clothes on our backs.

Varro had made it clear before we were dropped into the wilderness: survive or fail.

"The enemy will not care if you’re hungry, cold, or tired," he had told us. "Your comfort is irrelevant. Your survival is what matters."

That was the last thing we heard before the helicopters lifted away, leaving us standing in the dense, frozen forest, the distant mountains towering like silent sentinels.

Three days. No fires, no signals, no guarantees. And instructors hunting us like prey.

Day 1 – The Hunt Begins
We moved fast, putting as much distance between ourselves and the drop zone as possible.

The terrain was rough—dense undergrowth, uneven slopes, and the occasional frozen stream that forced us to pick our way carefully across the ice. The cold was immediate and unrelenting, settling into our bones with every breath.

Adrik led the way, sharp-eyed and focused, while I kept scanning the rear. Becker was already shivering, his hands stuffed under his armpits.

"You okay?" I asked under my breath.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Just… wasn’t expecting it to hit this hard."

None of us had been. You don’t feel the cold in training—until you’re out here, with nothing between you and the elements.

We kept moving, keeping to the shadows, using the terrain to mask our movements. Every so often, we paused to listen—ears straining for the sound of pursuit.

Then, a sharp snap of a branch in the distance.

We dropped to the ground instantly, pressing ourselves into the frozen earth.

A shadow moved through the trees.

Severus whispered, barely audible, "Patrol. Three, maybe four."

I felt my pulse hammering in my ears. This was too soon. They had already picked up our trail.

We stayed completely still.

Minutes stretched on. The figures moved slowly, scanning the ground. One of them crouched, brushing a gloved hand over the dirt. Tracking us.

Then, they turned and disappeared into the trees.

Not safe. Not yet. But we had bought ourselves time.

Shelter & The Cold
By nightfall, the temperature had plummeted. The wind cut through us like knives, sinking into our exposed skin.

"We need shelter," Adrik said, voice tight.

The forest was dense, but cover was scarce. After what felt like forever, we found a small overhang, half-hidden by roots and rocks. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

We worked in silence, piling branches, weaving them together to keep the wind out. There was no fire—smoke would give us away.

Becker dropped down, rubbing his hands together. "I don’t think I’ve ever been this cold in my life."

"You will be tomorrow," Severus muttered.

No one laughed.

Hunger gnawed at my stomach, but there was no food. Just the empty ache, growing worse with every passing hour.

Somewhere in the distance, a single gunshot.

Someone else wasn’t so lucky.

Day 2 – Hunger & Desperation
The second day was worse.

We woke stiff and frozen, our bodies aching from the cold. Moving was the only way to stay warm.

"Water’s getting low," Adrik muttered, shaking his near-empty canteen.

That meant only one thing: we needed to find a stream.

We pushed forward, moving deeper into the valley. Hours passed. Every step felt heavier. Our bodies were already burning through whatever reserves we had left.

Then, we found it—a small creek, cutting through the rocks.

Adrik knelt immediately, cupping water in his hands, drinking deeply. "Best thing I’ve ever tasted."

Severus grabbed my arm. "Wait."

I frowned. "What?"

He pointed upstream.

A dead bird, half-rotted, lay in the water.

Contaminated.

Adrik spat immediately. "♥♥♥♥."

No drinking. No relief.

Becker let out a frustrated groan, rubbing his face. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

We moved on, thirst clawing at our throats.

The Breaking Point
By late afternoon, Becker started falling behind. His steps slowed, his breaths came harder, and he stumbled more often than not.

"I can’t—" he gasped, stopping. "I just—give me a minute."

A minute was too long.

"On your feet," I said, grabbing his arm.

"I just need—"

"Get. Up."

He looked at me, exhaustion in his eyes. I knew that feeling. The body screaming for rest. The mind slipping.

But I also knew what happened when you stopped.

"Come on," Adrik muttered, pulling Becker’s other arm over his shoulder. "Almost there."

We carried him forward. One step at a time.

Nightfall & The Hunt Returns
The second night was worse than the first. Colder, darker, hungrier.

We huddled together for warmth, sleep coming in short, fitful bursts.

Then—voices.

Distant, but getting closer.

"♥♥♥♥," Severus whispered.

We scrambled to our feet, grabbing our gear.

A flashlight beam cut through the trees.

They had found our trail.

"Move," I hissed.

We slipped into the trees, moving fast but careful. Every crunch of frozen ground felt too loud. My pulse was hammering in my skull.

Behind us, the voices grew louder.

We ran.

Day 3 – Extraction & The Lesson
By dawn, we were running on fumes. Every step was agony. Hunger had turned into a dull, nauseating ache. Thirst burned at my throat.

But we didn’t stop.

Not until we saw it—the extraction point.

Varro stood waiting, arms crossed. A few other instructors were there, watching us with unreadable expressions.

We stumbled into the clearing, barely staying on our feet.

Varro looked us over. "How many of you are dead?"

No one raised their hand.

He nodded. "You learned the first rule of survival."

Silence.

He stepped closer. "You don’t survive alone. You survive because your team does."

I looked at Becker, still leaning against Adrik for support.

He wasn’t wrong.

We had made it—because we had each other.

They didn’t tell us much.

No mission briefing. No objectives. No rules.

Just that we had 48 hours to survive.

We stood in formation at the edge of the forest, sweat already soaking into our fatigues. The midday sun hung high, but I doubted we’d see it for long. The thick treeline swallowed everything past the clearing. Deep woods, uneven ground, ravines and ridgelines—it was terrain built for the hunted, not the hunters.

Centurion Varro paced before us, arms behind his back, gaze steady. His voice was even, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it.

“For the next two days, you will evade capture, complete assigned objectives, and engage enemy forces when necessary.” He paused, letting that sink in. “The OPFOR will be hunting you.”

A flicker of movement behind him. Shadows in the treeline. Figures in camouflaged fatigues, faces covered, watching.

They were already here.

Instructor Delya smirked as she stepped beside Varro. “Some of you will last an hour. Some of you will make it through the night. A handful of you might actually reach the end.” She tilted her head slightly. “And some of you will be dragged out of this forest kicking and screaming.”

No one spoke. No one breathed.

I tightened my grip on my rifle. The G36K’s weight was familiar now. Reliable. But a weapon wouldn’t help if I didn’t see the enemy coming.

Varro nodded toward the treeline. “Move.”

We ran.

Phase One – The First Hunt
Adrik took point, cutting through the undergrowth with sharp, precise movements. He had the map, and Becker carried the squad’s radio, but it was useless—OPFOR was already jamming comms.

Severus moved behind me, his grenade launcher clipped to his vest. The weight of my M1014 bounced against my back, but this wasn’t close-quarters. Not yet. The G36K was up, my eyes scanning the trees.

We didn’t speak.

The first ambush came within twenty minutes.

A single, distant gunshot.

Not at us. A warning.

Then a scream, somewhere ahead. Another squad had made contact.

Adrik raised his fist. We froze, pressing low against the undergrowth. My heart pounded against my ribs, my grip tightening on my rifle.

Then—silence.

The kind that made your skin crawl.

The kind that told you someone was watching.

A branch snapped to our right.

I turned just as a figure in full camo erupted from the foliage.

They were wearing dark green and brown fatigues, a mix of woodland and older surplus gear. Some had helmets, others wore shemaghs or balaclavas. Their rifles were cold war relics, but still deadly—AKs, G3s, FALs. Heavy calibers meant to punch through cover.

“CONTACT!”

I fired—three-round burst.

The OPFOR soldier hit the ground, dust kicking up. Not real rounds—training ammunition—but at this range, it still hurt like hell.

More movement. Gunfire ripped through the trees. Muzzles flashed between the branches.

“Go! Go!” Adrik barked.

We sprinted.

Branches tore at my arms, boots slamming against uneven ground. Gunfire snapped past my head, training rounds cracking against tree trunks.

“Becker, covering fire!”

Becker turned on his heel, dropped to a knee, and let the FN Minimi roar.

The belt-fed machine gun ate through the silence, suppressing the tree line as we dove into a ravine.

Phase Two – The Psychological Game
Night fell fast. The forest swallowed the last bit of light, leaving only shadows.

We had covered miles, moving in staggered bounds, but the enemy never let up. OPFOR wasn’t just tracking us—they were toying with us.

Distant laughter echoed through the trees. Not recruits.

Delya.

A whisper over a radio frequency—our frequency. “You’re slowing down.”

Becker cursed under his breath. I saw him tighten his grip on the Minimi, jaw clenched.

“They’re playing with us,” Severus muttered.

He wasn’t wrong.

Hours of this. Random gunfire, distant screams, the crunch of footsteps just beyond the tree line. Never close enough to engage, never far enough to rest.

Sleep was a luxury we couldn’t afford.

By dawn, we reached a clearing near a stream. The map said we had another ten kilometers to the exfil point, but that meant nothing if OPFOR caught us first.

Adrik knelt beside me, tracing a path on the map with his finger. “If we cut east, we avoid the ridgeline. More cover.”

Severus rubbed his temples. “Unless they expect that. Then we’re walking into a trap.”

Becker exhaled, running a hand down his face. “So, what? We just sit here and wait to get picked off?”

I wiped sweat from my brow, staring at the treeline. We were exhausted. Hungry. We had one MRE left between us.

But it didn’t matter.

They weren’t going to let us walk away.

Phase Three – The Technical Patrol
The first sign of them was the rumble of an engine.

Distant, but getting closer.

We flattened against the forest floor, dirt pressing into our skin. The sound grew louder. Tires grinding against loose gravel.

Then, through the trees, we saw it.

A technical. Old, battered, but still deadly. A pickup truck with a mounted machine gun in the bed. A gunner stood behind it, scanning the treeline. The others in the truck had rifles—G3s and FALs slung across their chests.

Patrolling. Hunting.

We stayed perfectly still.

The truck idled, just meters away. The gunner stretched his arms, relaxed, but his grip on the weapon never faltered. He scanned the trees, his eyes sweeping over our position.

For a moment, I thought we were caught.

Then—

A shout in the distance. Gunfire. Another squad was engaging.

The truck roared to life, tires kicking up dirt as it turned and sped toward the sound.

We exhaled as one.

Adrik whispered, “We move now.”

We slipped deeper into the woods, silent. The hunt wasn’t over.

Phase Four – The Final Lesson
The ambush came at sunrise.

We were moving through thick brush when the world exploded.

A flashbang.

My vision blurred, ears ringing.

Then—gunfire.

I hit the ground, rolled, brought my rifle up—

And saw them.

OPFOR. Delya at the front.

Her baton cracked across Becker’s shoulder before he could turn his Minimi. He went down hard.

I swung my G36K up, but a boot hit my ribs. I hit the dirt, breath torn from my lungs.

A figure loomed over me. Varro.

“Dead,” he said flatly.

Just like that.

It wasn’t a battle. It wasn’t a fair fight. It was a lesson.

We had never stood a chance.

The Aftermath
They gave us water, sat us up, let us breathe. No words. No lectures.

Just silence as we pulled ourselves together.

Delya crouched beside me, tilting her head. “How did it feel?”

I wiped blood from my mouth. “Like being hunted.”

She smirked. “Good. That means you’re learning.”

Varro stood, watching as we gathered what little dignity we had left. “Next time,” he said, “don’t let yourself be prey.”

We would have another chance.

Next time, we would be ready.

They called it a "conditioning exercise."

We called it hell.

Forty kilometers. Full kit. Rifles slung, rucks packed heavy with everything we’d need in the field—spare clothes, rations, ammunition, medical kits. The instructors hadn’t said when we’d stop. Only that we’d move until they were satisfied.

The first few kilometers weren’t bad. Muscles fresh, minds sharp, feet still whole. We marched in staggered formation, rifles held at a relaxed carry, boots crunching against the dirt road in perfect rhythm. Morning mist clung to the ground, cool against our overheated skin. The world felt muted, only the sound of our own breath and the steady drumming of boots filling the silence.

Then the real suffering began.

Weight of the World
The ruck pressed into my shoulders, straps digging into raw skin. My lower back burned, knees aching from the relentless pounding of each step. Every breath felt heavier. My shirt clung to me, soaked in sweat, and my hands had long since gone numb from gripping my rifle.

Around me, others were starting to falter. Varga, short and stocky, was practically growling under his breath, his face twisted in pure frustration. Becker had stopped cracking jokes. That was a bad sign. Adrik, ever the machine, just kept moving, his expression unreadable.

A sharp whistle cut through the air.

"FASTER!" Varro’s voice boomed from the front, his own pace never slowing. "If you fall behind, you don’t belong here!"

No one wanted to be that guy. The one who held everyone up. The one who became an easy target for the instructors.

The worst part wasn’t the weight. It was the unknown.

We didn’t know how long we’d march, when we’d rest, or if we’d even get to eat. There was no finish line, no countdown. Just the road ahead and the pain in our bodies.

And pain? It was making itself known.

Blisters tore open inside boots, every step pressing raw flesh against unforgiving leather. Shoulders screamed from the straps grinding against muscle and bone. The heat built like a furnace in our gear, sweat pooling at the small of our backs, trickling down our faces.

Some recruits started losing focus. Tripping over roots. Slowing down.

That’s when the instructors descended.

No Pity for the Weak
One recruit, a lanky kid with dark circles under his eyes, started dragging his feet too much. An instructor—one of the ones we didn’t even know the name of—was on him instantly.

"You slowing down, recruit?"

"N-no, Instructor!"

"♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥. DROP YOUR RUCK."

The kid hesitated.

"NOW!"

The second his ruck hit the ground, the instructor ripped it open and dumped everything into the dirt—his kit, his rations, his extra clothes.

"You don’t want to carry your gear? Fine. Your squad will carry it for you."

We all felt that threat like a punch to the gut.

Before the kid could protest, Varro stepped up. "One of you will carry his pack. If no one volunteers, you all get to do another ten kilometers."

Silence.

Then, Severus sighed and slung the extra pack onto his shoulder without a word. The kid looked like he wanted to thank him. Severus didn’t even look at him.

We all knew what this meant. Severus was strong, but even he wasn’t invincible. Carrying two rucks for any length of time was a death sentence.

"Switch off with me when you need to," I muttered as we started marching again.

Severus nodded once.

The kid didn’t say anything.

The Longest Kilometers
Kilometer twenty. The halfway point—at least, we hoped.

The road turned to loose gravel, every step sending tiny jolts of pain up my legs. My socks were soaked through. That meant blisters were getting worse. I wasn’t the only one feeling it.

Adrik was still silent, but his jaw was clenched tight, sweat dripping from his nose. Becker had a distant look in his eyes, like he was mentally anywhere but here. Varga was mumbling curses in his native tongue.

Then the real test came.

The terrain changed. The road sloped upward—gently at first, then steeper, and steeper still.

Uphill.

That’s when people started breaking.

One by one, recruits slowed. Some tried to push harder, but their legs just wouldn’t cooperate. A few fell outright, hitting the dirt hard. Some forced themselves up. Others… didn’t.

The instructors didn’t even yell anymore. They just watched, waiting to see who had the will to stand back up and who didn’t.

My legs felt like they were made of stone. Every step was a battle, every muscle screaming at me to just stop. I focused on my breathing. One step. Another. Another.

I wasn’t stopping.

Final Punishment
We reached the top of the hill. Some guys collapsed immediately, dropping to their knees, sucking in air like they were drowning.

"ON YOUR FEET!"

Delya’s voice cut through the exhaustion like a blade. "You think this is over?"

Somewhere, Becker let out a barely-contained groan.

"Drop your rucks."

For one, glorious second, relief surged through me.

Then I realized what was coming next.

"Full sprint. Downhill."

A few recruits muttered under their breath. Not loud enough to be heard.

"LAST ONE TO THE BOTTOM DOES PUSH-UPS UNTIL I GET TIRED OF WATCHING!"

I took off running.

Legs burned. Knees ached. The ground was uneven, loose rocks shifting underfoot. If anyone lost their footing, they’d eat dirt hard. But stopping wasn’t an option.

Somewhere ahead, Becker was half-laughing, half-wheezing. "I’m gonna die, but at least I’ll die fast!"

We hit the bottom. No one wiped out. Barely.

Delya smirked. "Good. Now grab your rucks."

Pain shot through my shoulders as I lifted mine. No time to adjust.

"March continues."

Someone cursed under their breath.

She heard.

"Say that louder, recruit."

Silence.

She smiled. "That’s what I thought."

The march continued.

The Breaking Point
At some point, we lost track of time. The sun baked us, our shadows stretched long against the dirt. We weren’t even marching anymore—we were just moving, putting one foot in front of the other, too exhausted to think, too drained to care.

Becker stumbled. Nearly fell.

Adrik caught him. No words. Just grabbed his vest and kept him moving.

Varga was muttering to himself in his language, his eyes half-lidded, but he kept moving.

Severus was unreadable. No complaints, no visible exhaustion. Just silence and determination.

I focused on them. On their suffering. If they could keep going, so could I.

"One kilometer left," Varro finally called out.

One more kilometer.

One more step.

The end was in sight.

We weren’t the same when we finished.

We dropped our rucks, collapsed onto the dirt, bodies broken, lungs burning, minds somewhere far away.

Varro looked down at us, nodding once. "Not bad."

Becker, flat on his back, let out a wheezing laugh. "I take it back… I don’t wanna open a bakery… I wanna sleep… forever."

Adrik grunted. "Shut up, Becker."

But we all felt the same.

We weren’t just recruits anymore.

We were survivors.

They called it training. We called it something else.

We lost track of time after the first few days. It wasn’t just the lack of sleep. It was how they took away the sense of control. They dictated when we ate, when we trained, when we moved, when we stopped. But sleep? That was never guaranteed.

We were shadows of ourselves. Movements sluggish, minds fogged. Eyes bloodshot, sunken. Every word took effort. Every thought felt distant, like we were trying to catch it before it slipped away.

And the worst part? The war didn’t stop just because we were tired. That’s what they wanted to teach us.

A Game We Couldn’t Win
The nights—or what felt like nights—were the worst.

One minute, we’d be dead on our feet, collapsing onto our cots, boots still laced. The next, the world exploded.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The doors slammed open. Boots pounded against the floor.

"ON YOUR FEET! GAS! GAS! GAS!"

My brain didn’t process what was happening. Instinct took over. I grabbed my mask, fumbled with the straps, yanked it over my face. A second too slow. Someone was coughing, hacking. Becker. He hadn’t sealed his mask in time.

An instructor yanked him off his cot and threw him to the floor.

"YOU THINK THE ENEMY CARES IF YOU’RE SLEEPING? THINK THEY’LL WAIT FOR YOU TO BE READY?"

Becker gagged, gasping for air. No pity. No mercy. The lesson was clear: stay ready, or suffer.

I reached down, grabbed his vest, pulled him to his feet. His eyes were watery, unfocused, but he nodded. "I’m good."

Good didn’t mean anything anymore.

Sleep Was a Trap
The gas drills were bad. The punishments were worse. But the waiting? That was what really killed us.

Some nights, they woke us every hour. Other nights, they let us sleep just long enough for our bodies to think rest was coming—then ripped us from it.

Our minds started to betray us.

One night, Adrik shook me awake. His grip was tight, urgent. "Lucanus, wake up."

I blinked, struggling to focus. "What?"

His voice was low. "Do you hear that?"

I held my breath.

Silence.

Adrik’s jaw was tight. "There’s someone outside."

My hand went to my rifle. Slowly, I sat up, scanning the darkness. Shapes blurred together. The wind rustled through the trees. Was something moving? I didn’t know. I couldn’t trust my own senses anymore.

"Stay down," I muttered, gripping my weapon.

We sat there, barely breathing. Waiting.

Nothing came. No alarm. No orders.

In the morning, Adrik didn’t talk about it. Neither did I.

Because deep down, we knew the truth. There was nothing out there.

Just ghosts of our own making.

Paranoia and Trust Games
They didn’t just break our bodies. They broke our minds.

One by one, they pulled us into a dimly lit room. No sound. No warmth. Just the flickering of a single bulb.

And the questions.

An instructor sat across from me, his voice calm. Too calm.

"Do you trust your squad?"

I swallowed. "Yes, Instructor."

"Would they trust you to save them?"

"...Yes."

The instructor leaned forward, studying me. Then he slid a piece of paper across the table.

"Write down the weakest member of your squad."

Silence.

My throat tightened. "I’m not doing that."

The instructor smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile.

"Then you’ll carry an extra ruck for the next twenty kilometers."

I stared at the paper. At the pen.

A choice. Betray someone, or suffer.

I took the pen. I wrote the only name that made sense.

My own.

The instructor didn’t even look at it. He just took the paper, nodded, and gestured toward the door.

"Get out."

I stumbled back to my squad, heart pounding. They were waiting. Watching. Becker, Adrik, Severus. Varga sat with his back against the wall, eyes closed, silent.

I didn’t ask what they wrote. They didn’t ask me.

We didn’t need to.

Hallucinations and The Breaking Point
By the fourth or fifth day—maybe longer—we weren’t sure what was real anymore.

Varga mumbled in his sleep, words in his native tongue, too quiet to understand. Severus sat against the wall, staring at nothing, his fingers tapping against his rifle like he was counting something only he could hear.

And Becker… Becker started talking to people who weren’t there.

One night, I caught him whispering under his breath.

I frowned. "Who the hell are you talking to?"

Becker didn’t answer at first. Then, slowly, he looked at me. His eyes were distant.

"Quintus, there’s someone standing behind you."

A cold weight settled in my gut.

I turned.

Nothing. Just the empty barracks.

I looked back at Becker. His breathing was unsteady. "I swear to god, they were right there."

I grabbed his shoulder, squeezed it. "You’re losing it, man."

He let out a shaky breath. "I know."

Neither of us slept after that.

The Last Test – Survival in the Dark
When they finally decided to break us completely, they made it simple.

They took us into the wilderness.

Stripped us of food, water, and warmth.

Then they left us.

"Survive."

That was the only order.

For hours, we stumbled through the trees. My body was screaming for rest, but I couldn’t stop. No one could. Stopping meant death—maybe not literally, but in every other way that mattered.

Varga collapsed first. Just dropped. Didn’t move.

Adrik knelt beside him. Slapped his face. "Get up."

Nothing.

"Varga!"

I crouched down, shook him hard. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused. "I… I just need a minute…"

"No." I grabbed his vest, yanked him upright. "You stop, you die."

His head lolled. "Maybe that’s easier."

I didn’t think. I just hit him. Not hard, but enough to shock him.

His eyes snapped back into focus.

"Get. Up."

A long pause. Then he nodded.

We pulled him to his feet. Kept moving.

Aftermath – Who We Became
When it finally ended—when they called us back, told us we’d passed—we weren’t the same.

We stood in formation, bodies wrecked, minds shattered.

Varro looked us over. He nodded once. "Not bad."

Not good. Not great. Just not bad.

Becker, half-dead, let out a wheezing laugh. "I ever say I wanna open a bakery again, someone shoot me."

Adrik grunted. "No promises."

I just stood there, breathing.

We weren’t just recruits anymore.

We were something else.

We were close now. Weeks had blurred into months, exhaustion had become a second skin, and pain was just background noise. Every muscle in my body was honed to endure, my mind sharpened by stress and repetition. The weak had been weeded out. Only those who could adapt, endure, and push through suffering remained.

I looked around at my squad—my squad.

Becker, once a cocky loudmouth, had learned to ration his words. Adrik, the machine, had started showing cracks in that cold exterior, hints of something more beneath the surface. Varga, the stubborn brawler, had become a steady presence, his grumbling less about defiance and more about sheer force of will. And Severus… Severus had never changed, but maybe that was his strength.

We had become something more than just recruits.

We had become soldiers.

But the final weeks still had lessons to teach.

The Barracks at Midnight
"You ever think about what comes next?" Becker's voice broke the silence of the barracks.

Most of us were sprawled across our bunks, too exhausted to sleep, too drained to talk. But sleep never came easy anymore.

Varga snorted. "Sleep. A full meal. A bath that doesn’t smell like sweat and death."

Becker exhaled a quiet laugh. "No, I mean after that. After we graduate. After we get assigned. You think it ever gets easier?"

No one answered.

I sat on my bunk, rubbing the stiffness from my legs, staring at the rifle propped against the wall. "If it does, we're probably dead."

A grim chuckle passed through the room. Becker sighed, rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."

Adrik, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. "It doesn’t get easier. We just get better." His voice was steady, matter-of-fact. "If you’re lucky, you live long enough to stop thinking about it."

Becker let out a tired chuckle. "Reassuring."

I didn’t say anything.

Because I knew Adrik was right.

The Instructor’s Test
The next day, Delya changed the rules.

We weren’t just recruits anymore—we were assets being sharpened for war. The training reflected that.

"Your squads are your lifeline," she told us, standing before us in the cold morning air. "But sometimes, your lifeline fails you. Sometimes, you stand alone. And if you do, you better be ready."

She turned to me. "Lucanus. Step forward."

I obeyed.

Her eyes locked onto mine. A challenge. "You're going in first."

The scenario was a close-quarters combat drill—a simulated urban raid. Our objective: clear a building, neutralize threats, and extract intel. Except this time, I was going in alone.

I gritted my teeth. No hesitation. No weakness.

Delya led me to the entrance, her voice low enough that only I could hear. "Think you can handle it?"

The question wasn’t necessary. She knew I could. She just wanted to see how I’d react.

I kept my expression neutral. "You tell me, Instructor."

For just a second—just a fraction of a moment—her lips twitched. A ghost of something that almost resembled a smirk. Then it was gone.

"Go."

I stepped into the dark.

The Fight in the Dark
The moment I entered, my world narrowed. Rifle raised. Breathing steady. The room was dark, shadows swallowing the corners. My ears strained for sound.

Footsteps. Right side.

I turned, squeezed the trigger. A training round slammed into a silhouette. It dropped.

Two more. I moved fast, clearing the hallway. The simulated enemies weren’t standing still. They rushed me. I pivoted, fired, dropped another. The last one was too close—I had to use my rifle as a club, slamming it into his chest before finishing with a shot.

All clear.

I exhaled. Heart hammering. Sweat dripping down my spine.

The door behind me opened.

My squad.

Delya stood at the entrance, arms crossed, watching. Measuring.

For a second—just a breath of time—our eyes met.

There was something there. Approval. Maybe respect. Something else, something unspoken.

She tilted her head slightly. "Not bad."

Then she turned to the rest of the squad. "Now do it again. This time, don’t let him outshine you."

The Unspoken Tension
Later that night, when the barracks were quiet, I stepped outside. The air was cold, crisp, the kind of cold that cut through exhaustion and left only clarity.

I wasn’t alone.

Delya stood near the training field, arms folded, staring out into the dark. When she heard me approach, she didn’t turn. "You did well today."

I stopped a few paces away. "Didn’t know you handed out compliments."

A faint exhale. Almost a laugh. Almost.

Silence stretched between us. Not uncomfortable, but not easy either.

"You push me harder than the others," I finally said. "Why?"

She glanced at me, something unreadable in her expression. "Because you can take it."

I held her gaze. "That it?"

Another pause. Then she looked away, a small, almost imperceptible smile at the corner of her lips. "Get some sleep, Lucanus."

She walked away, leaving me standing in the cold.

I watched her go.

Something had shifted. I wasn’t sure what.

But I knew this wasn’t over.

Not yet.

End of the Beginning
The last few weeks blurred. More training. More exhaustion. But we weren’t breaking anymore. We were hardening. The pain didn’t matter, the fatigue didn’t matter. We had become what they wanted us to be.

The morning of graduation, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a window.

I didn’t recognize the man staring back.

And maybe that was the point.

Morning Came With Silence
For the first time in months, no whistles cut through the air. No shouting instructors. No pounding boots.

The silence felt unnatural.

I sat on the edge of my cot, rolling my shoulders, feeling the deep, lingering ache in my muscles. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t go away with sleep. It was carved into me now, stitched into my bones.

Across the room, Becker sat hunched forward, forearms resting on his knees, staring at the floor. He hadn’t cracked a joke since yesterday. Varga was lacing and unlacing his boots for the fifth time, fingers moving in a steady rhythm, as if trying to distract himself.

Adrik stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the pale dawn stretch over Camp Vortem.

None of us spoke.

We all knew what today was.

The last day. The day we left this place behind.

The day we stopped being recruits.

We had spent so long fighting to survive here, and now that it was over, none of us knew what to do with ourselves.

Parade Ground: The Final Formation
We marched to the parade ground in perfect formation, but it wasn’t the same as before.

No one was forcing us. No voices barked at us to fix our posture or stay in step.

We just moved.

The parade ground stretched out before us, packed earth hardened under thousands of boots that had come before ours. At the front, the Raven Union flag hung above the stage, black and crimson against the gray morning sky.

Beyond the stage stood the officers. Their uniforms crisp, their expressions unreadable. Behind them, the instructors.

I spotted Varro immediately—back straight, arms folded behind him, face carved from stone.

And next to him—Delya.

Her sharp uniform was immaculate, her posture flawless. But there was something different in the way she stood. Or maybe I was imagining it.

For a brief second, she met my eyes.

Then the command came.

We stopped. Straightened.

And the ceremony began.

The Speech We Barely Heard
An older general with silver at his temples took the podium. His voice carried across the field, full of practiced authority.

Honor. Sacrifice. Duty. Brotherhood.

We already knew these things.

We had learned them in the cold, in the blood, in the nights when exhaustion blurred the lines between dreams and reality.

The speech wasn’t for us.

It was for the next ones. The recruits who would see us standing here and think they understood.

They wouldn’t. Not yet.

The Last Roll Call
"Adrik Volkov."

"Here."

"Becker Weiss."

"Here."

"Severus Halden."

"Here."

"Lucanus Marius Quintus."

I took a slow breath. "Here."

The list continued.

But some names never came.

Names we had shouted during training. Names we had cursed at in the mud. Names we had learned in the dark when the only thing keeping us awake was the sound of another soldier breathing beside us.

Gone.

Their absence was louder than any voice.

We had survived. But not all of us had.

And that was something we would carry.

Varro’s Final Words
When the ceremony ended, Varro stepped forward.

He didn’t take the podium. Didn’t need to.

He let the silence stretch. The weight of it pressing against us like a hand on our backs.

"You are soldiers now," he said. His voice was sharp. Uncompromising. "That does not make you special. It makes you responsible."

His gaze swept across us.

"Some of you will not live long enough to regret this path. Others will wish you hadn’t."

No false promises. No talk of glory.

Just the truth.

"You came here as recruits," Varro continued. "Stripped of everything. Beaten. Broken. Tested." A pause. "You survived."

Another pause.

"Do not waste it."

That was it.

No applause. No grand exit.

Just a nod. And then it was over.

What Comes Next?
The second we were dismissed, the tension cracked.

Becker let out a breath and ran a hand through his buzzed hair. "That’s it? That’s all we get?"

Varga shook his head. "I was expecting something… more."

Severus smirked. "They’d rather spend money on bullets."

Adrik was quiet. Arms crossed, watching the others. "This isn’t the end," he muttered. "It’s just the beginning."

I nodded.

We had survived.

But now, the battlefield was waiting.

Delya and Lucanus: One Last Moment
She was standing near the edge of the parade ground when I found her. Arms crossed, posture as sharp as ever.

But she wasn’t barking orders. Wasn’t our instructor anymore.

Just Delya.

She turned as I approached, her blue eyes scanning me.

"You didn’t say anything," I said.

She raised a brow. "What do you want me to say?"

"That you’re proud of us?"

She snorted. "You need a pat on the head, Quintus?"

I smirked. "Maybe."

For a second—just a second—her expression softened. Then she sighed, arms dropping to her sides. "You did well."

Coming from her, it meant something.

I tilted my head. "Is that you being sentimental?"

"Sentimentality is useless," she muttered. But her lips twitched.

A pause.

A different kind of silence.

Her gaze flickered over me, unreadable. I saw her hesitate—just for a second.

Then she stepped closer.

Not much. Just enough that I noticed.

"You’re a soldier now, Lucanus," she said. Her voice was quieter. Meant for me alone.

She was looking at me like she wanted to say something else.

Something she wasn’t supposed to.

I felt the heat of it, the way her posture wasn’t as rigid anymore.

Maybe I imagined it.

Maybe I didn’t.

But the space between us felt smaller than it should have.

Her fingers twitched, like she almost reached for something—then she pulled back.

Just like that, the moment was gone.

She straightened, voice leveling out. "Don’t forget that."

Then she turned and walked away.

But just before she disappeared into the crowd, she glanced back.

It was quick. Barely there.

But I saw it.

And for the first time since I arrived at this hellhole, I felt something I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time.

Regret.

The Final Assignment: Separating the Squad
The next morning, we got our orders.

I looked down at mine.

Lucanus Marius Quintus – 3rd Mechanized Infantry Battalion, 2nd Special Assault Company. Forward Base Vortem, Northern Front.

Not with my squad.

I looked up. Adrik was staring at his own orders, expression unreadable. Becker frowned, reading over his twice. Varga cursed. Severus folded his.

"♥♥♥♥," Becker muttered. "I thought we’d stick together."

"Wishful thinking," Adrik said.

"Where are you all stationed?" Severus asked.

"Varga and I got assigned to the 5th Heavy Infantry," Becker said.

"3rd Mechanized," I said.

Adrik exhaled. "1st Mountain Recon."

No one spoke.

We had bled together. Survived together.

And now, we were being sent our separate ways.

Varga clapped my shoulder. "Take care, big guy. Try not to die too quick."

"You too."

Then came the worst part.

Saying goodbye.

We clasped forearms.

Then we walked away.